


written in our bones

by onetruenorth



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Basically season 7 with a twist, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Pining, Possible Silver Wedding, Slow Burn, a marriage proposal is already up in the air when Jon and Dany meet, at some point, because the chase is everything, featuring Tyrion as the best matchmaker in Westeros, seriously tons of it, the slowest burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2018-12-30 06:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetruenorth/pseuds/onetruenorth
Summary: “If I’m going to rule in Westeros, I’ll need to make alliances. The best way to make alliances is with marriage.”“Who are you marrying this time?”“Tyrion says he’ll find a suitable match.”Or, Daenerys lands in Westeros, and Jon Snow arrives at Dragonstone as her potential betrothed.





	1. The King in the North

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I'm excited to be sharing this fic with you. Jon and Dany are so pure, their story is so compelling and it's so fun writing them. I'm planning this fic to be about 3/4 chapters and around 20k words maybe. 
> 
> Everything in season 7 happens in this fic up until a certain point so I tried not to rewrite anything that happened in the show. I'm trusting that you guys know what happened lmao. With that being said, I hope you guys enjoy reading!

 

 

Daenerys had expected to feel something. An ache in her heart, or regret pooling inside her. Instead she felt nothing. Saying farewell to a man who truly loved her, felt like a simple formality.

“If I'm going to rule in Westeros, I'll need to make alliances. The best way to make alliances is with marriage.”

She took a sip of wine, staring over the rim of the glass at Daario, who was kneeling before her. It was a vulnerable move for him, a humble way of doting on her. He'd always been too proud for that. She feigned compassion in her heart where there was none.

“Who are you marrying this time?”

Daenerys' eyes flitted away, and she gazed through the open archways to the city. She felt more somber for this being the last Meereenese sunset she would ever witness, than she did for leaving Daario behind. She would miss the warmth of Essos more than anything.

Winter was as foreign to her as Westeros, but she soon enough she would come to know them both.

“Tyrion says he'll find a suitable match.”

–

In truth, her lack of sympathy for Daario worried her. There was a time when he could make heat course through her body just by the look in his eyes.

Where there were once flames blazing under her skin for Daario Naharis, there was nothing.

Where there used to be a lasting lament in her soul for Drogo, there was silence.

Daenerys worried that she couldn't truly trust her feelings when they could just disappear that way. She wondered what could become of her fierce love for her people. If it would simply fade away as well, like blowing out the flame of a candle, leaving a hole burned into her heart.

She voiced her concerns to Tyrion and he assured her that it was for the best.

“Emotions and politics are like sails on a ship. Yes, you need a few to be functional, but one too many and the vessel becomes difficult to control. All it takes is a bit of trouble in the waters and the ship will sink.” He believed himself when he told her that she had just the fair amount, even though she didn't truly believe it herself.

“Well, you have completely failed to console me,” she said, standing before him.

It wasn't totally honest, there was one thing he said that stayed in the forefront of her mind. Through his small speech about his newly found belief in her, and while she officially named him as Hand of the Queen, his words resounded within her.

_He wasn't the first to love you, and he won't be the last._

–

The open water had always been relaxing to Daenerys. She enjoyed standing on the bow of her ship, watching her children soar through the skies over her fleet that stretched all the way to the horizon. She'd dreamed of the day she'd finally be making her journey to Westeros, and it was an incredible feeling to see it through.

“You sent for me, Your Grace?” Tyrion appeared at her side at the head of the ship.

“Yes, Lord Tyrion.” Daenerys said, “We haven't spoken of my future marriage alliance since you assured me you'd find a suitable match. I'd like to hear of any progress you've made.”

“Yes, of course.” He rubbed his hands together the way he did when he was gathering his thoughts. “There are few suitors left in Westeros fit for a queen. Your marriage has to be a sound strategic move that we stand to gain from. So the choices are...” he hesitated, “Limited.”

“Tell me.” Daenerys was aware her options would be scarce, and she didn't mind, as long as there _were_ options.

“Well, there's my brother, Jaime Lannister.”

Daenerys' eyes flitted over to her Hand. “Would you like to take a boat and row yourself to Westeros?”

“Your Grace, he's the rightful heir to Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, commander of the Lannister armies. He'd never marry you while my sister was alive, but if we win this war, I could convince him to join our side.”

“I will not marry the man who killed my father,” Daenerys said resolutely, “I will not marry a man who has taken up arms against me.”

“It would be an equal trade.” Tyrion attempted to sway her. “We'd gain a tremendous amount.”

“I don't need your brother to gain the Westerlands, I have you.”

“Your Grace—”

“Would you like _swim_ to Westeros?” Daenerys grew irritated, “I will not marry Jaime Lannister or any other Lannister. They can't give me any more than you already can.”

“Very well.” Thankfully Tyrion yielded, allowing Daenerys the dignity of her choice.

There weren't many options, it was true. Tyrion told her of Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale, who had a powerful army and an impenetrable fortress, but he was only a boy of ten and three. She would not be betrothed to a child. She needed allies and they had no time to wait for him to come of age.

There was Dickon Tarly, young and unmarried. His father would likely be named Warden of the South in wake of the Tyrells defying the crown. But Tyrion said Randyll Tarly fought for her father during Robert's Rebellion, and he might agree to an alliance with the last Targaryen if they reached him before Cersei.

It would be difficult, but not impossible.

“Who else?” Daenerys asked, hopeful for a more obtainable option.

“There's just one more, and it's... questionable,” Tyrion admitted, “But it makes the most sense politically.”

“Who is it?”

“The northern lords have rallied behind Jon Snow, named him Warden of the North after he banded together an army and took Winterfell back from the most despised family in the North.” Tyrion said.

“Snow?” Daenerys raised her brow.

“He's Ned Stark's bastard son. Raised by the most honorable man in Westeros,” Tyrion explained, “I knew him. We traveled together to The Wall once.”

“And?” Daenerys asked, her interest piqued.

“I liked him. He was young and a bit brooding, but I liked him all the same,” Tyrion said, “If the North's allegiance lies with Jon Snow, then as your hand, I would advise you to form your strongest alliance with them. It's the largest kingdom and the most difficult to control.”

Daenerys hummed, “The northern lords chose him as their leader?” That wasn't very typical of lords in Westeros. Even with her limited knowledge of the land's politics, Daenerys knew that no one was chose their own leaders, it was all based upon hierarchy. So this Jon Snow must have been quite the revolutionary.

“They did.” Tyrion said slowly, “He served as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch until he was released from his vows. He was chosen for that as well.”

He sounded quite interesting compared to the other suitors. Daenerys nodded her approval, wanting to know more, “You knew him, you said. What does he look like?”

She felt Tyrion's eyes flock to her then. “Would you like me to arrange a meeting so you can find out soon enough?”

Daenerys paused for a moments time, thinking. “No, not yet,” she said, “I need time to think about it.”

Tyrion nodded, “Of course, Your Grace, it's an important decision after all.”

He lingered for a moment, and Daenerys looked over at him questioningly. She was met with an expression akin to amusement on his face, which he didn't bother to explain before bowing and leaving her presence.

–

Daenerys was foolish to think that arriving in Westeros would feel anything like a sort of homecoming. She may have been born at Dragonstone, but it was never her home.

The closest she'd ever come to a home was the house in Braavos with the red door, the only place she'd ever lived longer than a year before Robert Baratheon's assassins came after them.

Dragonstone was simply another destination on a map. She was there to organize her conquest of Westeros and that was all. Perhaps she would make a home somewhere when it was all over. A true home.

For now, however, she was still working toward what was yet to come.

The Greyjoys along with Ellaria Sand were currently sailing to Dorne, and Daenerys was fraught with worry that something could go wrong. Tyrion's plans seemed too perfect to be perfect.

A great storm had fallen on Dragonstone, the worst one in living memory since the night she was born. To add to the distress, her advisers were all pulling her in different directions: show your strength, exercise restraint, hit now and hit hard, _be a dragon_.

Daenerys couldn't be bothered to devote her attention to a single one of them... except the Spider. She owed it to his vast network of spies that she spent her entire life fleeing from Robert's assassins. He may have overseen the Targaryen restoration as Tyrion claimed, but she did not trust him.

She meant what she said. If he ever conspired against her, she'd burn him alive.

The storm worsened, sending raging waters crashing into the cliffs, and then night fell, bringing an unexpected visitor along with it.

Now there was a red priestess before her, speaking of prophecies, princes and princesses that were promised, the bringing of dawn. Daenerys had no faith in religion or prophecies, but she appeased the Lady Melisandre as gratitude for the Red Priests role in the restoration of Meereen.

“You believe this prophecy refers to me?”

“Prophecies are dangerous things. I believe you have a role to play, as does another,” Lady Melisandre replied, “The King in the North. Jon Snow.”

Tyrion stepped forward. “Jon Snow?”

Daenerys turned toward her Hand. “ _King_ in the North?”

“Your Grace, I wasn't aware he'd been named king.” Tyrion assured her apologetically.

Daenerys said nothing. She wasn't aware that her potential consort was the proclaimed _king_ in the north. She hadn't decided yet if she would offer her hand in marriage. She'd been thinking about it, but she'd been thinking about so much else since she arrived at Dragonstone.

The Lady Melisandre went on, telling of this “king” in the north and his accomplishments of uniting Wildings with the northerners to take back the seat of House Stark.

He did sound like quite a man, bringing people together to face their common enemy.

How long would it be before Daenerys, a foreign invader in the eyes of the Westerosi, became their common enemy?

“I can't speak for prophecies, but I like Jon Snow and I trusted him, and I'm excellent judge of character.” Tyrion weighed in, “The northerners would never accept my sister, but they might accept you. Cersei played a role in the destruction of House Stark, Jon Snow has more reason to hate her than anyone else here, apart from me. He might support you if it meant defeating her.”

Daenerys paused for a moment, mulling over his words, “If he's calling himself king, then the north is in open rebellion.”

“Open rebellion against my sister, making them a valuable ally to you,” Tyrion replied carefully, “The enemy of your enemy is your friend.”

He was right. She needed alliances, and the more she formed meant fewer for Cersei. Everyone was either with her or against her, and this “king” in the north was no different. Everyone had to choose a side, or have it chosen for them.

“Very well then. I would like to meet him. Tell this Jon Snow that his Queen invites him to come to Dragonstone.” She assented then added coldly, “And bend the knee.”

–

There were many things Daenerys had considered could go wrong, but she hadn't considered they would all go wrong at once.

Within the same few minutes, she lost her alliance with the Dornish and the Iron Islands, the strongest portion of her fleet was destroyed, and any aspirations she had for making an alliance with the north were promptly diminished.

She'd had hours to tame her frustration over the loss of the Greyjoys and the Dornish army, and adjust tactics to recuperate after the setback. She'd only just begun to seethe over the latest issue.

Jon Snow.

Her first meeting with the “king” in the north was a frustrating affair.

He refused to submit to her cause or to Cersei's cause, saying they were both children playing at a game. He had no desire to speak of politics or war or her proposal, his only concern was some “Night King” and “army of the dead” that he believed to have seen beyond the wall. He claimed to be neither Daenerys' enemy nor her ally, and yet he was asking for her help.

He was neither the crown defying rebel she expected, nor the peace revolutionary she thought him to be when she first heard of him. Daenerys could not quite decide how she felt about this king in the north.

Tyrion chose that opportune moment to enter the council room, where Daenerys had remained long after everyone left.

“Do you need a lesson of the manner in which doors work?” Daenerys asked rhetorically. “You knock, I answer, and _then_ you may come in.”

“Thank you for your lesson, Your Grace, forgive my intrusion.” Tyrion didn't mind her petulance, and instead busied himself with preparing them both a goblet of wine. “I merely thought you'd like to discuss this particular matter in private.”

“I know the particular matter you're referring to, and there is nothing to discuss,” Daenerys said, taking the beverage when it was offered to her. “Why should I help Jon Snow with anything when he won't even submit to my cause?” she paused with the glass held before her lips, “Or accept the alliance proposal.”

“He neither declined or accepted, I suppose he needs time to reach a decision, which is reasonable,” Tyrion said, taking the seat next to her at the head of the map table.

“Then why did he come here? A raven would have sufficed.” Daenerys allowed her thoughts to escape her, “Why risk his life to openly defy me and reject me in person?”

“He hasn't rejected you.” Tyrion assured her, “He's simply more preoccupied with saving mankind from... whatever he saw beyond the wall, than he is with who sits on the Iron Throne. I suppose he came here solely to ask for your help, not to get involved in the war against my sister.”

Daenerys took a sip of wine, allowing it's soothing affects to cool her growing temper before she spoke again. “We made it clear, if he bent the knee, I would offer my help after I've taken back the throne. But I will not risk my armies or my dragons for someone who has no regard for my cause other than I'm _better than Cersei at the very least_.”

“And you are right to do that. No one should ask it of you, especially on the word of a man you don't know,” Tyrion agreed, “But I don't believe Jon Snow to be a madman, and he would never side with Cersei, but he's not entirely on your side either. He serves the north's best interest. He's not your enemy.”

Daenerys knew Tyrion was right, but it was no less frustrating.

“So what would you have me do, Tyrion?”

He took a long drink of wine before appeasing her. “Give me time to speak with Jon Snow. I'll see if I can reason with him, and in the meantime, we'll treat him as a guest here, and not a prisoner,”

Daenerys' eyes fixed her Hand with a pointed glare. “He's never been my prisoner.”

“All the same, we'll treat him as a guest.”

–

Of all the things that would please Jon Snow, a mountain of rare minerals would have been Daenerys' last guess.

When Tyrion came to her after speaking to the king in the north, telling her of “dragonglass” and special “White Walker” destroying weapons, she thought it was too easy. The simple demand didn't measure up to the proud man she'd met a day prior.

But when she spoke to him on the battlements of the castle overlooking the bay, he seemed genuinely relieved that she'd allow him to mine the dragonglass. It was entrancing.

She found herself thinking about this _Jon Snow_ and his ambiguous “knife to the heart”, his irritatingly admirable refusal to bend the knee, and his dislike of killing that reminded her of a brother she never knew. She thought about him far more than she'd like to.

“Seems they had no problem finding the mountain of dragonglass,” Daenerys mused to Tyrion. She could see the small group of Dothraki she'd serviced to Jon Snow through the arched windows of the council room. They'd been flocking around a cave at the base of the cliffs.

Daenerys turned to her Hand. “That worked out well enough for them, but what have _we_ gained from it?”

“We've taken a more productive step toward a potential ally,” Tyrion replied, “And now we can take an even further step toward a sound _alliance_.”

He looked up at her over the wine he was preparing with an expression she couldn't quite read.

“What do you mean?”

“Jon Snow knows every reason why he's here just as well as you do. A marriage alliance is still the best course of action for both your causes.” Tyrion explained, offering her a glass, “If the two of you are ever going to agree to it, you'd need to speak to each other under circumstances that are more... agreeable.”

Daenerys eyed him suspiciously. “You're saying we should become favorable to one another.”

Tyrion nodded, gesturing with his wine glass. “If you're going to be betrothed, then you should be favorable with one another, wouldn't you agree?”

It was the truth. Regardless of what enmities Daenerys might hold, an alliance with the north was still in her best interest. She would have to gain the favor of the king in the north if she ever wanted to solidify her hold.

“Very well then. What do you have in mind?”

–

When Tyrion suggested that Daenerys have dinner with Jon Snow, she hadn't known that he meant _only_ with Jon Snow.

“The Queen's favorite summerwine,” Missandei said, her voice like the sound of sweet music as she filled one of the wine goblets. Daenerys pondered fleetingly why it was her closest friend serving them. Missandei hadn't been a servant in a long while.

Daenerys also noticed that _he_ looked uncomfortable, this Jon Snow. Not in an impolite manner like he'd rather have been somewhere else, but instead, wary of the matter at hand. He didn't strike Daenerys as the sort of man to be nervous, only suspicious.

“Will no one else be joining us?” Daenerys asked lowly when Missandei leaned in to fill her wine.

“If it please Your Grace, Lord Tyrion has asked that we allow you and Lord Snow to dine alone,” she replied equally as hushed. That explained why she was serving them. It was Tyrion's bidding for Missandei to ensure it was a private affair.

Daenerys' eyes flitted across the room where Jon Snow was seated at the opposite end of the table. He was watching them carefully, made leery by their muted exchange.

She wondered if he felt unsafe, and it crossed her mind momentarily that she hoped he did.

Then she recalled Tyrion's advice, and knew that it was in her best interest to adjust her approach to a more inviting one.

_The enemy of your enemy is your friend._

She'd have to make a friend of him first.

“We wouldn't want to disappoint him then.” Daenerys pressed her lips into a smile at Missandei. The other girl bowed respectfully before leaving the room.

Then there were two, and Daenerys became sorely aware of how large a room it was for only two.

“I hope you didn't mind fish, My Lord, we have quite an abundance here on this island,” Daenerys said amicably, using her cutlery to slice into the poached salmon.

“Of course, Your Grace.” Jon cleared his throat. “Though I don't know what I've done to deserve a meal with the Queen," he was treading lightly, an unsure edge in his voice, "But thank you for having me.”

Daenerys mulled over her next words carefully. “If we are to be betrothed one day, we should be favorable with one another, wouldn't you agree?”

A beat of silence passed and she glanced up at him. He was staring back at her for a brief moment before his eyes trailed back down to the table.

“You've been talking to Tyrion again.” He said simply.

“He is _still_ my Hand,” Daenerys replied.

“Aye he is.”

Daenerys refocused on her meal, a bit petulant that he was still avoiding the subject of their potential marriage alliance. Refusing to accept or deny. She wondered if he took pleasure in being such a frustrating man.

He wasn't the robust, barbaric Northman she'd envisioned. In fact, he didn't take up much space at all. His features weren't strapping, as she would have expected of a _king_ , instead he was more comely. Fair skin shadowed with dark eyes and dark hair. With his heavy cloak of furs and gruff northern accent, he was the only trace of winter on Dragonstone.

“Is he much different than when you knew him before?” Daenerys asked, recalling Tyrion mentioning they'd traveled together before.

“He's less drunk.” Jon replied. He wasn't the most poetic, but there was a certain lightheartedness in his voice.

“Yes well, he's of more use to me when he can speak in complete sentences.”

“Is it strange?” Jon asked.

Daenerys looked up when he said nothing further, prompting him to go on.

“Having a Lannister in your service,” he finished.

Daenerys let out a small breath, “I have an army of Dothraki horselords, Unsullied soldiers and dragons, and you ask if it's strange to have a Lannister in my service?”

Jon said nothing, instead his eyes fell back to his meal. Daenerys found herself wondering if she'd been too harsh, though he had a habit of breaking eye contact in any case. Perhaps she _could_ be less abrasive.

“How did you come to own three dragons?” he asked suddenly.

“I don't own them.” Daenerys replied without missing a beat. “They're my children.”

“I meant no offense, Your Grace,” he said grimly.

Daenerys wasn't sure if he was mocking her or genuinely interested, so she asked him a question in place of giving him in answer. “Do you know how I came to be called the Unburnt?”

“I've heard stories.”

“Then you know,” Daenerys replied, “I'm aware that number of titles is quite extensive, Lord Snow, but I assure you, I earned them all.”

“I don't doubt that you did.” He stared openly at her with his deep brown defiant eyes.

Daenerys let out another small breath, cutting her eyes back down to her meal. Even when Jon Snow was agreeing with her, it felt like an act of defiance. In Meereen, she wouldn't have tolerated a man like this, one who refuses to submit to her and openly defies her.

But in here Westeros, she dined with him.

“Queen of the Great Grass Sea,” Jon said, drawing Daenerys' attention almost immediately, “How did you earn that one?”

Daenerys was aware of what he was doing, watching her, observing her reaction. It was a show of respect, but it was also another act of defiance. Proving her wrong by proving he did indeed listen to her many titles.

“ _Khaleesi_ of the Great Grass Sea,” Daenerys corrected him a bit defeatedly.

He nodded. “How did you become the... _Khaleesi_ to a horde of Dothraki?” he asked, “You said they crossed the sea for you. Why?”

Taking a sip of wine, Daenerys searched his face for any sign of insincerity, but he only seemed curious, which admittedly pleased her.

“They're loyal to their own. Long before I had dragons or armies, I was one of them." She looked down at her food, pushing it around with her fork. “ _Qoy Qoyi_. The blood of my blood.” She reminisced her days by Drogo's side, once tender memories were now like stones in her heart.

“The Dothraki follow strength above all. I proved mine to them,” she finished and added ominously, “With fire and blood.” For a moment she was back at the burning temple of the Dosh Khaleen, bathing in flames, breathing them in, tasting blackened smoke as it filled her lungs.

The dying screams of the great Khals filling her ears.

She willed those thoughts away, and glanced up at the _king_ in the north. She was surprised to find him staring back at her with a pensive look on his face. His dark features drawn together in shadows of thought.

“It's my understanding that Wildlings and Westerosi have always hated each other.” Daenerys heard herself say before she'd given her mouth permission to speak, “How did you convince them to fight with you?”

He spoke after a moment, not meeting her gaze, “The free folk were our enemies for centuries, but I allowed them through The Wall, because I've seen what's out there.” His eyes climbed up to meet hers, a challenging edge to his voice, “I'm not their king, but they fight for the living. That's more important than thrones and titles.”

Daenerys inhaled slowly, keeping her expression as solid as stone. She didn't need to explain herself to anyone, she was a Queen, _the_ Queen, but she strangely felt the need to justify herself to this Jon Snow. Whether to gain his favor for an alliance, or simply because she wanted to prove herself to him, she wasn't sure.

“I gained my titles by doing what was best for my people, and I would give up my titles and the throne if it were best for my people, but it's not.” The realm would bleed as long as Cersei sat on the Iron Throne, everyone knew it, and Daenerys was the only one who could defeat her. “Would you do the same?”

Jon Snow seemed surprised by her answer, something shifted in his expression. “If it were best for my people,” he agreed resolutely.

Daenerys held her wine glass to her lips, staying his gaze. “Then I suppose we aren't so different, you and I.”

He swallowed slowly. “We just can't seem to agree even when we do.” He pressed the corners of his mouth into a sort of flat lined smile that Daenerys very well could have imagined.

“I agreed to giving you a mountain of dragonglass,” she reminded him, “I take it you had no trouble finding it. Have you started mining yet?”

“We found it, but I wanted to give you a chance to see it before we started,” he said, “It's quite the sight.”

Daenerys raised a brow at him, surprised by the offer. She'd been unsure if the dinner was going well, but he was bidding another time with her, so she supposed she'd taken a more productive step. But she caught the notion that there would be many steps to take with this king in the north.

“Until tomorrow then, Jon Snow.” She agreed, tilting her glass in his direction.

He nodded, some semblance of satisfaction replacing his usual frown.

“Tomorrow.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so that's chapter one!
> 
> Chapter two is in the works, it's going to be a lot longer than this little set up chapter, but let me know in the comments if you want me to continue or if you even enjoyed this at all lmao. Go ahead and subscribe to the story if you want to be notified whenever I update!
> 
> In the meantime here's my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/sergeantdaddy) and [Tumblr](https://joneryswarrior.tumblr.com/). I'm active on both and my ask box and dms are always open if you wanna drop by! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated lovelies!!!


	2. The Mad King's Daughter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonstone was unlike anything Jon had ever known.
> 
> And the Dragon _Queen_ was another matter entirely.

Dragonstone was cold. It was a different sort of cold than Winterfell, not quite the same as the Godswood with snowfall tucked away in its branches. Nor was it the same biting cold Jon had grown accustomed to at the Wall, where the air was straight from the mouth of winter, so cold that it burned. Dragonstone was unlike anything he knew.

And the Dragon _Queen_ was another matter entirely.

He'd heard the stories long before he'd come to Dragonstone. Whispers and words of the Queen Across the Sea, the last Targaryen. The woman who walked through fire. The Mother of Dragons. Some believed she was some kind of God, others believed she was something more sinister.

Tales of her beauty traveled all the way across the Narrow Sea. Daenerys Stormborn. The most beautiful woman in the world. Everyone that met her was swept under her aura and fell in love almost immediately. Jon heard that from a Night's Watch recruit that claimed he knew a man who hated Targaryens his entire life, until he went to Essos and caught a glimpse of the Silver Queen, and then his only desire was to serve her.

She _was_ pleasant looking, Jon couldn't deny that. He knew he was standing in front of the most beautiful woman in the world the first time he laid eyes on her. But his only desire was not to serve her. Nor was he enchanted enough to immediately fall in love. She had dragons fair enough, but he still wasn't sure how she came to have them.

Stories were fickle. Told differently each time they were passed along until the truth became unrecognizable.

Jon was surprised when she met him the next morning. After their shared dinner, Jon thought they were on acceptable terms at best, but she trusted him enough to call off her guards at the very least. That was progress.

The Queen willingly allowed Jon to guide her through the caves, a million glossy black facets of dragon glass reflecting in her eyes. She'd moved closer to him in the confined space and they spoke in confidence for the first time.

She continued surprising him. From reciting the very words Jon said to Mance Rayder at Castle Black, to asking his advice on her war tactics, to pledging her forces to the north, but only on the condition that he kneel to her. She would fight for him, the northerners would accept her if their king did, and they needed him to protect them, and he needed her to do that.

Marrying her was the obvious solution, she enjoyed reminding him of that. His bannermen almost abandoned him the moment he read Tyrion's proposal letter, but Jon assured them that he would only try and persuade her to fight with them, nothing more.

He'd been wandering about the bloody island for hours to sort out his thoughts, but it was her voice in his head. Only Daenerys and her finely laid logic.

_I'd give up my thrones and titles if it were best for my people._

Her words from dinner taunted him.

_Would you do the same?_

In truth, Jon didn't trust himself to know.

His bannermen seemed to know what was in their own best interest, or they merely thought they did. Jon had found that it was the opposite for the followers of the Dragon Queen.

He'd been asking around the island, interacting with the vast assortment of people. The Dothraki had a tame sort of brashness to them, the Unsullied were purely soldiers with the semblances of men, and Missandei was well mannered and sophisticated. They all shared one thing in common: they were devoted to their Queen.

Whatever else Daenerys was, she inspired a certain devotion in her people that was unlike any other ruler Westeros had known.

Jon was starting to believe there was indeed more to foreign invaders than meets the eye.

“I came to congratulate you.” Tyrion announced as he approached Jon at his usual brooding spot on the cliffs.

“For?”

“Our Queen will not attack King's Landing,” Tyrion explained, “She forwent all of the advice from her advisers, and instead she's listening to you, a man who refuses to submit to her, won't marry her and has openly defied her more times than I can count. Congratulations. If anyone else used your tactics with the Dragon Queen, they'd be a pile of ashes somewhere.”

Satire. Tyrion always had a fair amount of it and, unfortunately, it seemed as if he hadn't run out.

“You all told her the same thing that I did,” Jon replied. Although, the Queen probably listened to him _because_ he told her something different than her advisers, something they couldn't.

_You're not different. You're just more of the same._

“It doesn't matter. She _listened_ to _you_ ,” Tyrion said, “I suppose I'll have to earn her favor again, after horridly underestimating Cersei and getting half our allies killed or captured.”

“Well you can't bring her allies back from the dead.”

“Raising the dead wasn't exactly what I had in mind,” Tyrion said, “I suppose my plan of simply gaining new allies must be terribly anticlimactic now.”

Jon looked over at the dwarf out of the corner of his eye, aware of what he was implying. “I've told you, the northerners won't—”

“Yes, they won't accept a southern ruler,” Tyrion interrupted, “But Daenerys is not _just_ a southern ruler. She's our last best hope.”

“So it's true then?” Jon asked, unable to stifle the need to know the truth. “All the stories about her.”

Tyrion shrugged, “Depends on the story.”

Jon exhaled in frustration, “Why do _you_ follow her, then? Why are you so set on making her the queen?”

Tyrion took a deep breath.

Jon listened as he confirmed the stories about the Queen bearing her dragons in a pit of fire... gaining wealth land and armies in a short span of time... freeing Slaver's Bay... then a bit about stuffing shit through holes in a crate... loved by millions... asking Tyrion to advise her instead of murdering him... breaking the wheel.

He spoke so highly of Daenerys, it reminded Jon of the way people used to speak about his father. The most honorable man that ever lived, who inspired loyalty at every turn. Jon used to believe his father made no mistakes, and nothing could ever happen to him.

But Jon was wrong, and so was everyone else.

“The way you tell it, she's never done anything wrong and she never will.”

Tyrion shook his head, “She's not perfect, but she knows herself. With the right council, she'll make a better ruler than Westeros has seen in the last few hundred years.”

Jon looked out over the expanse of the water, conflicted. “You believe in her?” he asked, hoping for an answer to make his situation easier. It would be easier if Daenerys were the mad Targaryen that everyone expected her to be.

“I don't believe in many things. Not gods, nor a plan for this world,” Tyrion said, making the situation anything but easier. “But I believe in Daenerys Targaryen. She wants to leave the world a better place than any of our fathers ever did, and I want to help her.”

Jon exhaled, glancing down defeatedly.

“You think she's too good to be true, so did I,” Tyrion said knowingly, “Every person down to the hundred thousandth on this island came here of their own free will. We all see something in her.”

Tyrion stood in front of Jon, gathering his full attention. “You want to save the world and protect those who can't protect themselves. She wants to make the world a better place for those same people, and you, and me, and every person thereafter. But she needs help.”

“Aye she does,” Jon nodded, then looked away, “We all need help.” There would be no world left for anyone when the Night King came.

“You and your people need her help, and she needs all of your support,” Tyrion said and Jon's eyes flitted toward him. “But I won't tell you what's best for your people, only you could know that.”

Jon said nothing.

Tyrion believed he knew what was best for the North, that was obvious. Daenerys as well. Sansa certainly believed she knew. Davos believed he knew as well, even if he hadn't spoken it yet. Jon was the only person who was unsure what was best for his people, and yet he's the one they put their trust in.

“She's leaving in the morning.”

Jon stayed Tyrion's gaze, “Where?”

Tyrion fixed him with a curious look, “Perhaps you should ask her yourself. You've done enough asking others about her. Am I right to assume you've been thinking a lot about her as well?”

Jon hardened his expression. He knew what Tyrion was on about, the same as Davos. There was no time for Jon to _stare at her good heart_ or _think a lot about her_ and he had no desire to.

“I've been asking her people about her, as you advised. And?”

“And now I'm advising you to keep thinking about her,” Tyrion replied, “And make a decision,” he added.

Jon nodded, knowing that he was right. He wondered if the Dragon Queen would still be willing to help him if he denied her marriage proposal as the Northern lords wished. He could already say with full confidence that she would not.

Tyrion made to leave but then he turned back and paused.

“The right decision, Jon Snow.”

-

For reasons he could not fathom, Jon found himself standing outside the door of the war council room.

In the hours since his conversation with Tyrion, Jon had yet to reach a decision on any of the present matters at hand, there was only one thing certain in his mind. He wanted to know where the Queen was going.

He noticed that the encampment of Dothraki on the island had been mobilized. It was hard _not_ to notice some one hundred thousand men and horses being ferried to the mainland in such a haste.

Jon tried to ask some of the men serviced to him what was happening, but it was a vain attempt without a translator. They were only given brief instructions on mining dragon glass. Apart from that, they didn't understand Jon, nor he them.

There was no sign that Missandei would grace him with her presence soon, nor had Davos managed to gather any information, so Jon's choice was clear. He'd have to ask the Queen himself, because not knowing wasn't an option.

The only problem being that she wasn't alone in the council room. Jon very clearly heard voices through the door, the Queen's and Tyrion's. Jon told himself he'd come back later, but that was over 10 minutes passed, and still he stood waiting.

It wasn't his intention to listen in on their conversation, he was only waiting for the opportune moment to knock. And while waiting, he could hear the Queen speaking just as sharply to Tyrion as she had hours before on the shores of the island.

She'd been seething with rage then, her tempter afire after receiving the news of her foiled plan. By the words carrying through the door, two things were apparent: Tyrion was right about needing to regain her favor, and her temper had yet to cool down.

Jon decided then that it was best to wait, but instead of turning to leave, he watched as his fist raised and knocked on the solid hard wood of the door as if it had a mind of it's own. The voices immediately fell silent and the door was swinging open a few seconds later.

Jon saw her silver hair first, followed by the petulant look on her fair features. It was Daenerys. His fist was still raised in a silly manner and he may have imagined the way her expression smoothed out when she saw it was him.

“I didn't mean to interrupt,” he cleared his throat, his fist falling back to his side, “I'll come back later.”

He made to leave but Daenerys stopped him, “You're not interrupting. Tyrion was just leaving,” she cast a sidelong look at her Hand.

Tyrion tapped his empty wine glass on the table, his eyes looking around searchingly as if the information were new to him.

“Of course,” he agreed nonetheless, “I'd forgotten I have very important matters to discuss with... myself.”

He nodded to Jon, and uttered a “Your Grace” in passing that went unacknowledged from the Queen. Her hard stare was focused on Jon as she stepped aside and allowed him to come in.

“If I may,” he asked carefully before speaking out of term, closing the door behind himself. She regarded him for a moment before giving a slight nod.

“He's a better politician than he is a military man,” Jon said. War tactics were clearly not an area of expertise for the Lannister, but he was good with words. Jon remembered how much Tyrion helped him cope with joining the Nights Watch simply by speaking to him. He had a great mind.

“So it seems,” Daenerys hummed and then said nothing else of the matter, which Jon understood. Even if she wouldn't discuss it, at the very least she agreed with him. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” She folded her hands together expectantly.

Jon tipped his head toward the floors, realizing the way he'd sought after her was rather odd, alone in her council room. “I heard you're taking my advice.”

“I am,” she said with certainty.

“But you're leaving in the morning?” Jon looked up at her questioningly.

She nodded, pursing her lips together a bit ruefully, “I don't want to be like everyone else,” she said, “I will not melt any castles or burn any cities. I'm going to meet Cersei's army in the open field, take back what they stole from High Garden, and destroy the bulk of her forces before I lay siege to King's Landing.”

It surprised Jon that she openly shared her tactics. He assumed it was because she wanted his opinion by the way she watched him intently, waiting for his reaction. “That's... smart,” he said after a moment.

“You don't like the idea,” she easily read through him.

Jon let out a small breath, “No army stands a chance against a dragon.”

“The Lannister army doesn't stand a chance against the Dothraki either. Should I stay them as well while Cersei continues to rule the country freely?” Daenerys posed a fair point, but there was still the loss of life Jon had to consider. With the Night King drawing nearer, and the clutches of winter reaching further south every day, every bit of life had worth.

“There is no fairness in war,” she reminded him, “I'd expect you to know that better than anyone.”

Jon did not need to be reminded. He'd fought so many fights for so many causes, none of them a crown nor throne. Such small matters compared to what was coming. Time and lives being wasted on this war when the Great War was yet to come. Perhaps that's why he uttered coldly, “I know better than most.”

Her eyes bore even deeper into him, “You question my motives.”

Jon realized he'd overstepped, “No Your Grace I—”

“Tell me,” she disregarded his apology, “Would you do anything for your family?”

Jon hesitated a moment before nodding.

“Of course you would. You took Winterfell from the Boltons after it was issued to them by royal decree,” she took a bold step closer to him, “You defied the crown and allowed yourself to be named king of one of the Seven Kingdoms,” she spoke pragmatically, reducing the entire story to straightforward facts, keying Jon as a traitor.

“But no one accuses you of treason because you did it for your family,” she relented, “It's honorable.”

She took another step toward him, the same way she did in the throne room at their first meeting. Exuding charisma, absorbing all of his attention as if it belonged to her.

“Dragonstone is the ancestral home of my family,” she told him, “It was here in this castle that my mother died giving birth to me.”

A small amount of guilt coursed through Jon and he tried to look away from her piercing gaze but failed.

“You see, she was sent away from King's Landing during the Rebellion,” Daenerys continued, “Do I need to tell you why? Shall I remind you what happened to Targaryens during the Rebellion?”

Jon slowly shook his head.

“My father, as cruel as he was, murdered by his own kingsguard,” she went on, “My brother Rhaegar, killed in battle by Robert Baratheon. His children, slain by Lannister soldiers. I never knew any of them. Me, a baby just born, sent into exile, fleeing assassins my entire life.” Her expression was stone-like, hard and cold, making it clear she wanted no pity.

“I don't know what it's like to have a home or a family, mine were taken from me.” Despite her impassive demeanor, it sounded like a confession.

Jon regret his earlier predispositions of the Queen, he'd been inconsiderate in judging her. “I'm sorry,” he found himself saying, “No one deserves to be punished for the crimes of others.”

She seemed momentarily surprised by his apology, causing her stolid expression to falter. “All that's left of my family is their legacy, and I would die before I let Cersei Lannister destroy it,” she spoke resolutely, “I'm the last Targaryen. I won't be the one that lost everything.”

Jon nodded respectfully. Again, he thought about how much simpler this would all be if Daenerys were just another tyrant seeking power. Unfortunately, Jon was finding that there was nothing simple about the Dragon Queen.

“Did you know anyone from your family?” he asked, taking a less diplomatic tone.

“My brother Viserys. He was cruel, stupid and weak,” she said ruefully, shaking her head, “I suppose he lived up to my father then. Maybe even most Targaryens.”

“Not all of them,” Jon said back automatically. Her eyes turned questioning. “You may be the last, but you weren't always the only one.”

“What do you mean?”

Jon looked searchingly around the room, as if he'd find a script somewhere with the perfect words. There was nothing, no right way to tell her besides simply coming out with it. “The Maester at Castle Black was Aemon Targaryen. I knew him, I served with him. Your uncle, I believe.”

Jon had been debating whether or not he'd tell the Queen about her late uncle, he wasn't sure if it would amount to anything, if she'd even care. But after hearing her talk about her family... he thought she should know.

Something shifted in her demeanor, “I never knew,” she said on an exhale.

“He was a good man,” Jon said, recalling all the times he'd gone to the Maester, dating back to when he was a wide eyed recruit, “The furthest from cruel, stupid and weak than anyone I've ever known. I learned a lot from him.” What Jon would give to speak to him again. “He died over a year ago, peacefully in his sleep.”

Daenerys' eyes flitted back and forth between his, a certain realness gleaming in them that hadn't been there before. “Did he—did he know about me?”

Jon nodded.“He did. When we started hearing about what you were doing in Essos, he wanted to meet you.” The Maester never actually spoke about her to Jon, but Sam had a habit of recounting Maester Aemon's every word. He idolized the old man. “He said you were alone and in need of your family.”

“I suppose he was right, but I'm not alone anymore,” she mused, “I have my children.”

The thought seemed to bring her comfort. Though Jon didn't entirely understand, in any case he agreed, “You do.”

Her mood seem brightened, “Tell me more about my uncle.”

Jon found that he enjoyed her genuine intrigue, “You would have liked him, everyone did.” Gods it had been so long since he spoke of his dear old friend to anyone. “When I was Lord Commander, I asked him once if I should do something that I felt like I had to do, even though it would divide the Nights Watch, and make half the men hate me. Do you know what he told me?”

Daenerys shook her head, her eyes alive and hanging onto Jon's every word.

“He said half the men hate you already. Do it.”

Daenerys smiled. Jon eyed the slight curve of her lips with the corners of his own mouth threatening to pull into a smile.

“Did you?” she asked.

Jon nodded solemnly, “He knew I'd do what had to be done.”

“Was it the right decision in the end?”

It was certainly one he'd never forget, perhaps that was a good thing, maybe he needed to remember.

Before Jon lay to rest every night he thought of Hardhome. Of Karsi and her girls. He thought about Ygritte. He saw their faces. _He died for us._ It was Tormund's voice. _My watch has ended._ And then it was his own. _You'll be fighting their wars forever._ Ser Allister, dignified fucker even with the noose around his neck. _For the watch._ A boy of ten that swung in his dreams even now.

Jon remembered it all down to the searing pain of the blade plunged through his heart. He needed the constant ache of reminder, lest he forget.

“It's always worth it to do the right thing, no matter the consequences. Your uncle taught me that.”

Daenerys' smile grew. Her bright eyes shined, warming him like the sun. “Good.” The pain was gone.

Another layer of her hard exterior seemed to lift from around her, but still she hesitated. “Was he... What did he think of me?” She sounded different from the regal Queen who was always so sure of herself. She was caught between a confident ruler, and a woman who just needed validation from her family. Jon understood both.

“He admired you,” it was the truth that she needed and Jon gave it to her, “If he'd met you, he would have loved you more than he already did.”

She was quiet for a moment, looking away towards the map table and blinking a few times. “I,” her voice faltered and she cleared her throat, “I see.”

She looked vulnerable for the first time. She was small in stature but she'd never appeared smaller than she did in that moment. Jon felt as if he were intruding simply by witnessing it.

“It's getting late,” he made his excuses to leave, “You have an early start tomorrow.”

“Yes, very well then.” With her blessing, Jon turned to leave, but not a moments time passed before her voice came once more, “And Lord Snow,” she stopped him.

He turned to face her, “Jon, Your Grace.” Why he felt safe allowing her to disregard his title, he could not say. He turned a blind eye to the disapproving faces of his bannermen coming into his mind.

The Queen spoke gently, “Thank you, Jon.” She looked up at him, her eyes just barely shining with emotion, like polished gems that even the finest stones they had up north couldn't compare.

His eyes lingered on hers far too long, but her gaze seemed to fix him in place where he stood near the door. “Good night, Your Grace.” He nodded respectfully and made to leave, his heart turning like a wheel in his chest.

-

Jon rose early the next morning, not that he would've gotten much rest in any case. He didn't slept well, hadn't since he was a green boy who'd yet to breathe air outside the walls of Winterfell.

Admittedly, he was awake that particular morning for a reason.

“You're up early, Your Grace,” Ser Davos was ambling along the battlements of the castle when Jon crossed his path, “What's the occasion?”

Jon continued walking and his Hand followed, “I could ask you the same, Ser Davos,” he replied in place of an answer. The older man stayed silent for the rest of the walk. They both knew where Jon was going.

“What brings the two of you to the edge of a cliff at the break of dawn?” Tyrion asked as Jon and Davos arrived at the highest point of the highest hill on the island.

Jon ignored the dwarf and his unparalleled supply of satire. He looked around, and despite the slight cover of darkness due to the early hours of the morning, he saw _them_ as clearly as he would at the break of day.

Their eyes burned bright and their scales reflected the pale light of dusk. The windy cliffs carried their charred smelling breath through the air.

They were still quite a distance away from Jon and company, and they didn't particularly seem to care about their presence. The largest one lay unbothered in the grass, while the two smaller ones frisked around each other. It reminded Jon of how the direwolves larked about when they'd all been together at Winterfell. It was a sight, fearsome dragons behaving like pups.

“Careful. I'm afraid my children don't have a very good history with strangers.”

Jon turned at the sound of the Queen's voice and saw her approaching, Missandei at her side and her Dothraki guards trailing behind. She was dressed differently, Jon noticed. A coat with trousers and boots rather than a regal gown. She was dressed for war.

“Your Grace,” Jon greeted her, nodding respectfully along with the others.

“I thank you all for coming to see me off,” Daenerys gave them a nod as well.

Jon supposed that's what he was doing, seeing her off. Though he'd done it without realizing.

“We wish you good fortune,” Jon told her, “Strength and honor.” He'd never had to see someone off before. Jon was always the one leaving, he was always the one who needed luck and prayers. He realized it was easier to go off and fight than it was to stay behind and wish, and hope.

“Thank you,” she said to Jon. Her silver hair glowed under the moon.

“My Queen,” Tyrion called to her and she moved to stand in front of him, “With your permission, I'd like to be present at the battle. Although I don't seem to have any means of transportation at the moment, so I'd require a small boat, a small horse or a small dragon if you will.”

By the careful way Tyrion spoke, Jon reckoned he'd still yet to regain the Queen's favor.

“Planning on fighting, were you?” she remarked, sarcastic.

“No, I—”

“Good.” There was a biting edge to her voice, the entire company fell deeper into silence, much like they had on the beach the previous day. Jon shifted uncomfortably.

Then she spoke with ease, “You're a much better politician than you are a military man,” and Jon's eyes darted to her just as quickly as she glanced over at him. The look exchanged between them didn't go unnoticed by Tyrion or Davos, but Jon couldn't particularly be roused.

She had listened to him. Again.

“You may ride with Qhono and meet me when the battle is won,” she gave Tyrion her blessing and he bowed appreciatively. “And if you own a sword, Lord Tyrion, don't bring it.” She added as an afterthought, and she and her Hand shared a small smile together.

Daenerys regarded them all with one last look before she turned and walked away.

“Are you sure you don't want any armor?” Jon called after her without having given his mouth permission to speak.

She looked over her shoulder at him, and he might have imagined the barest hint of a smile on her lips.

“You seem to forget I have a dragon, Jon Snow.”

Jon failed to hold his tongue, “Is that enough?”

He felt everyone's eyes flock to him and Daenerys stopped in her path, her expression hardened before she turned away. She went rigid and it was silent save the wind for a moment, and then Jon felt the ground shake and a screeching snarl ripped through the air. It was coming to her, the largest dragon.

It was nothing but a harrowing outline in the darkness as it lowered it's head at her feet.

“Perhaps you could ask Cersei Lannister when I am finished with her,” Daenerys spoke with her back to them. Then she climbed on the massive creature, and they were nearly blown off the cliff by the great wind from the beat of its wings.

Jon watched with his heart in his throat until the Queen and her dragon dissipated into the darkness. She was not just another beautiful woman who sat by idly while others did her bidding, Jon decided. Daenerys left the safety of her walls, rose from her throne and fought her own fight, swung her own sword. A warrior Queen.

“You don't need to worry, Lord Snow,” Missandei appeared in Jon's line of sight, “Our Queen is very brave.”

Jon cleared his throat, realizing that everyone apart from Missandei and Davos had already gone. “Even the bravest man can be killed,” he said ruefully. It wasn't something he wanted to think about at that moment.

“Yes. _Valar Morghulis_ , all men must die,” Missandei agreed, sounding strangely comforted, “But she is no man.”

With a smile, she turned and left, and Jon stared after her for a moment before letting out a deep breath and walking nearer to the edge of the cliff.

“Davos.”

His Hand appeared beside him as he stared across the expanse of the water, watching the tiny ripples of the black surface catch the moonlight.

“If the threat of the Night King is so great that I'm asking Daenerys to swallow her pride and ally with us,” Jon voiced his thoughts, “Then by the same token...that survival outweighs pride,” he trailed off.

“Then the North should be willing to submit in return,” Davos finished for him, and Jon's eyes darted to the older man. “Yes, Your Grace, by that logic.”

Jon nodded slowly, “Aye.” He looked out over the water once more, and heard the echo of a dragon's cry in the distance as he turned away. “That'll be all.”

-

It was windy. Jon could smell the salt from the sea all around him, it clung to his skin, to his furs and his beard. The sand on the beaches was muddled and gray, yet the grass on the cliffs beneath his feet was green. Everything was brighter in the south, the blue of the sky and the pale heat of the sun. The earth there was still alive, far enough from winter's reach for now.

 _Arya would have loved it there_. Jon couldn't help but think about his gallant little sister. He imagined the headstrong, messy haired girl he once knew frolicking about the shores at the edge of the water, and it brought a smile to his face. But the pain that came with her memory was worse than any knife wound, so Jon pushed away the thoughts of his dear sister.

He'd been wandering about the cliffs for the better part of the day. If anyone were to ask, he'd say he was looking for his boat, but no one asked, probably assumed he was _brooding_ as they all said. In truth, he was doing a fair amount of that as well. He'd recently gained a lot more to brood about.

Theon Greyjoy was the last person he expected to see at Dragonstone. When he was still a boy in the Nights Watch, he wondered what he would do if he ever saw his father's ward again. Back then, he would've killed him without question for what he did to Robb, for betraying their family. Today, he spared him for what he did for Sansa.

Of all the things on his mind, Jon questioned that decision most, and he probably would for the rest of his days.

Mostly however, Jon was looking for Daenerys.

The night would soon fall and he was still awaiting her. Perhaps because he was unsure what would happen to him if she never came back, if he truly was a prisoner on the island... or perhaps he was simply concerned for her safe return. Jon hadn't decided.

No matter, because when Jon saw the winged figure emerge across the horizon, he felt as if that was an answer enough for everything. In truth, the sight of the dragon took his breath away still, even after spending nearly a week on the island amongst them. Tyrion was right, you never really get used to them.

As it drew nearer, he could make out a small figure nestled on its back, barely a speck of white. Jon felt something unwind within him that had been strung tight since he watched Daenerys fly off that morning.

He expected her to lead the dragon closer to the castle so she could dismount there, but instead she landed the massive creature near Jon on the cliffs. Before he knew it, all he could see were rows and rows of teeth sharper than Valyrian steel, and the dragon's breath like heavy smoke from fires hotter than the sun filled his lungs.

Jon was afraid. He knew, because every time he found himself staring death in the face, it was his father's voice that came to his mind.

_There's no shame in fear, what matters is how you face it._

So Jon was afraid but he wasn't ashamed to admit it to himself; he was made of more than just the fear coursing through him. He held out his hand, and he looked the creature in it's big slitted eye and the creature looked back at him. The moment Jon felt the rocky plated scales against his flesh, something changed. Jon didn't know what it was, he couldn't explain it, but it felt as real as the blood pumping through his veins.

The feeling rushed through him, from the crown of his head to the sole of his feet, and for that one brief moment in 5 years, he felt safe.

Jon thought the feeling would go away when the dragon pulled back, but a part of it remained somewhere deep within him.

Then Jon looked up, and his breath was stolen away once again. From the back of her dragon with her long silver braid catching the wind behind her, Daenerys could have been mistaken for a new God come to Westeros. She'd been watching, utterly captivated, and Jon could hardly fathom that the look on her face was directed at him.

She gracefully climbed down and joined Jon on the cliffs. They spoke in confidence once again, and somehow Jon managed to offend her twice. On the subject of her "beautiful" dragons, and her decision of war tactics that he still wasn't entirely sure he agreed with. But she was right about one thing, sometimes strength _is_ terrible.

Then she surprised him and took him by the arm, forcing him to look her in the eyes as if he owed her that while she questioned the “knife he took to the heart”.

Jon had been hoping that detail in Davos' well versed speech had been forgotten. He'd never explained to anyone what happened that night at Castle Black. He could hardly explain it to himself.

There were words. _They killed me, my own brothers._ And more words. _You shouldn't be alive, it's not right._ And more words. _The Lord of Light brought you back for a reason._ And more words. _They think you're some kind of God._ But Jon had yet to find the right ones.

“Ser Davos gets carried away.”

Daenerys stayed his gaze, “So it was a figure of speech?” she asked.

Jon saw the disappoint in her face when he nodded. She released his arm and he walked with her along the cliff in silence. She looked across the expanse of the water as they did, watching the dragons dance around each other in the sky. He'd seen her do that often, watch them mesmerically, regard them with such fondness.

“If we're to be allies, we need to understand each other,” Daenerys' voice came and Jon blinked from his reverie.

“You once asked me how I came to have my children,” she spoke without looking at him, “I received three stone dragon eggs as a gift at my wedding.”

Jon hadn't known that, but he knew the rest. The funeral pyre, the girl who walked into the flames... he wondered if she'd ever explained it to anyone before. He wondered if she'd found the right words yet.

“You were married once before,” Jon changed the course of the conversation.

The Queen looked over at him finally, and Jon worried he'd overstepped.

“I was,” she said after a moment, “My brother was stupid enough to trade me off to a Dothraki Khal,” she shook her head ruefully, “In return for an army he'd never receive.”

“I'm sorry,” Jon apologized. He hadn't meant to bring painful memories back to her.

She paused, seemingly surprised by his response. “The Dothraki aren't known for their gentleness, but I grew to care for my husband,” she explained, her voice soft but empty, “I endured. As does any woman who doesn't have a choice.”

Jon's eyes fell to the ground at the thought of what she was implying. He recalled what she told him at their first meeting. Chained and betrayed. Raped and defiled. Jon hated the thought of it. He shouldn't have brought up the subject.

“You know that, if we were ever...” Jon trailed off, he didn't know what he was saying. “I wouldn't do that.” He finished dimly.

She said nothing for a long moment and Jon looked up at her.

The Queen watched him mindfully. “I know,” she said with much sincerity. Then a beat later, her fire returned. “No man will again.”

She waited for his response as if she expected him to undermine her.

Jon simply said, “Good.” And he meant it.

She regarded him for a moment before she seemingly accepted his reply. “Were you ever married?” she asked.

“No,” Jon replied too quickly. She noticed.

“But there was someone,” Daenerys easily read him.

Jon swallowed thickly, “There was, but not anymore.” He blinked away the flashes of red hair and green eyes that burned in his mind.

Daenerys gave a slight nod of understanding. Her steps slowed to a stop when the castle came into view, and she turned and faced the water. Jon studied her profile, mapping out the smooth lines of her face without realizing it.

“I suppose we've all lost someone,” she mused softly, staring ahead. “A lover, a brother, a family, a home, a child. Had to leave things behind or had things taken from us that nothing could quite replace.”

Her words brought many things to Jon's mind. His father. Robb. Rickon. The Nights Watch. Bran. Arya. His home. His mother. He wondered what came to Daenerys' mind.

“Sometimes I think it would be easier to forget I had them at all,” Jon heard himself say.

“I suppose it would be easier,” Daenerys hummed, “But if I don't remember what I learned from what I lost, then I lost for nothing.”

That left Jon slightly stunned. “More of Tyrion's ancient wisdom?”

The Queen turned once again and her eyes bore into him, “No, my own.”

Jon let out a small breath. He was frustrated and... marveled.

The Dragon Queen was supposed to be a half-mad, spoiled girl grabbing at power. Jon was supposed to come to Dragonstone, deny her proposal, collect the dragonglass and perhaps by the slightest chance, convince her to fight with him. Instead, Daenerys was a woman fiercely dedicated to her goals, with well defined motives and a vast following of people who all believed in her... who  _loved_ her.

She was everything he could have hoped for, but nothing that she should have been, and it was inconvenient for Jon.

Daenerys had been terribly inconvenient for Jon.

The North would hate him for it, but he knew what he had to do. Jon made his decision.

“I—”

“ _Khaleesi.”_

Jon and Daenerys turned to find her Queensguard approaching, with a frail looking older man among them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can't tell, I'm such a Maester Aemon stan ugh rip legend. I deserve Jon and Dany talking about him in season 8.
> 
> I totally stole the "strength and honor" thing from Gladiator.
> 
> And thank you GRRM for the foreshadowing. "A warrior princess, Jon decided. Not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to come rescue her." I'm glad Jon's finally found his warrior *Queen*
> 
> Comments and kudos are very appreciated!!


	3. The Inconvenient Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon accepts the Queen's invitation.

The Queen was scarce for the remainder of the day. Jon sought after her twice, and in both instances he was made aware that she was otherwise occupied. Once with a council meeting, and once, with Ser Jorah Mormont.

Jon had only ever known what his father and the other Northerners said of Ser Jorah. As a disgraced knight who brought shame to his family, Jon had never given him much thought. Daenerys seemed quite fond of him however, so Jon came to the conclusion that there must have been at least one redeemable thing about the old knight. That was all.

There were more pressing matters on Jon's mind than which of the Queen's subjects she chose to embrace.

The most immediate matter being that he was going to marry her.

Jon was going to accept her initial offer and everything it entailed. Everything.

He wasn't a fool. He knew the consequences would be severe. His bannermen would sooner go to war than submit to Daenerys. Sansa would be angry with him for not consulting her first. Robb lost the North once but he would never have given it away willingly. His father perhaps, if it were the right thing to do. But his father was gone, and so was Robb, and so would follow everyone else if Jon didn't do something different.

And he always had to do _something_.

Jon checked the war council room first the following day. When he found it empty, he resorted to wandering through the castle in hopes that he might run into Daenerys by chance. The slightest chance.

Instead he ran into a man that he automatically knew could only be Lord Varys. The spymaster gave a slight nod along with a calculated look that told Jon never to trust him.

“You'll find the Queen in the east wing of the castle,” he said, even though Jon hadn't uttered a word about where he was going. Then the Spider disappeared as quickly and weightlessly as he'd appeared.

In any case, Jon headed to the east wing and eventually he came across Missandei, who was oddly accompanied by Davos. The two of them were mid conversation as Jon walked into their path.

“Your Grace,” Davos nodded in Jon's direction.

“Lord Snow,” Missandei greeted him, “The Queen has just sent me to gather you.”

Surprising news but good news nonetheless. “I'd like a word with her.”

“She is preoccupied at the moment, preparing for the celebration.”

Jon raised his brows at that. “Celebration?”

“After a great victory, the Dothraki are accustomed to divulging in the spoils of war. Because the Queen has outlawed most of their typical spoils, she's allowing alternative festivities to be held,” she explained in her song-like voice, “I was sent to invite you. Do you accept?”

Jon glanced at Davos, the older man gave him an indifferent look as if to say, it's up to you. Jon's eyes fell to the floor, skeptical about any sort of celebration in the midst of their circumstances. But even if there was nothing else to be gained, it was still a chance to speak with Daenerys.

“I accept the Queen's invitation.”

-

It was a warm day at Dragonstone, Jon was thankful that he'd chosen to go without his heavy northern furs. The military encampment for the Dothraki was more or less a village. Jon had never been to that part of the island. He wasn't sure what the boundaries were but he'd wanted to be respectful of them.

Walking through the village now with Missandei and Davos, Jon didn't feel _un_ welcome, neither was he greeted with honey and wine. Other than a few curious glances as they walked by, no one seemed to particularly notice them. They were waiting for someone else. Jon could see the eagerness in their faces. They awaited their Queen.

Missandei came to a stop when a man in light armor approached her. Jon recognized the Unsullied armor. It was streaked with dried blood that was not the man's own. Missandei seemed taken back, not frightened, but she'd gone rigid enough to make Jon instinctively reach for the hilt of a sword he didn't have.

“Missandei of Naath, I have returned from Casterly Rock.” He spoke with a heavy accent.

They had a brief exchange in a foreign language that Jon definitely couldn't place, and then the man turned and walked off.

Missandei's eyes lingered on him for a moment, then she cleared her throat, a red tinge appeared high on her cheeks when she realized Davos and Jon were watching her expectantly.

“That was Grey Worm, the commander of the Unsullied,” she explained.

“Grey Worm?” Davos repeated the odd name.

Missandei nodded, “The Unsullied were not permitted to own their own names. Each new dawn they drew a disk from a cast, and that was the name they were given that day. Brown Flea, Blue Toad, Black Rat. Names to remind them what they were. Vermin.” her eyes were downcast, “Our Queen allowed them to choose new names, but Grey Worm wouldn't choose as such."

“Beg your pardon for my asking,” Davos said, “But why?”

Jon glanced pointedly at Davos but Missandei didn't seem affronted.

“Grey Worm was the name he drew they day Queen Daenerys conquered Astapor, and set him free,” she replied, looking back to where Grey Worm was headed up the hills to the castle, “It is a lucky name.”

Not for the first time on this island, Jon was left slightly stunned. He and Davos followed her line of sight, watching the form of Grey Worm fade in the distance.

“Among other things,” Davos commented, earning another look from Jon.

They went further into the village until they reached the center, where the celebration was to take place. Food was being arranged, and a massive ramp had been raised with trunks covered in horse skin placed on the different levels, seats clearly meant for Daenerys and her entourage.

“Snow.” A guttural voice came from behind them.

Jon turned and was met with the men that were serviced to him while mining the dragonglass. There was Arro, Mhalko, Tirgo and Pohollo. Jon greeted them and he was glad Missandei was there to translate so he could really speak to them, rather than using stilted words and hand gestures. He properly thanked them and assured them that it would only take a few days to finish, to which they responded with mutual content.

Then Tirgo questioned, “Use glass for sword. Why? Steel better.” So Jon explained the threat in the North as best he could without sounding mad.

“They say the king of night and his ice men are weak,” Missandei translated when they started spouting off at the same time. “They would melt in the sun here, and be nothing more than an army of water holes to... piss in,” she spoke stiffly, as if it pained her to use such language.

Davos chuckled next to him and Jon found himself holding back a smile.

Then Tirgo led Jon away from the others to meet a small dark haired woman carrying a child at her hip. Missandei translated as he introduced them as his wife, Qirri and their son Tilo, a boy of three.

“I'm Jon Snow of the North,” he said, pressing his mouth into a friendly smile.

The boy reached a tiny hand to trace the wolves engraved on Jon's breastplate. He tried to say Jon's name but it was mostly a babble of “Jonsow”.

“Good woman give good boy,” Tirgo said. “Khaleesi give you silver son.”

Jon blinked a few times then his eyes fell to the ground. He knew Tirgo was jesting, no one knew he'd made the decision to marry Daenerys. Still, Jon hadn't really given much thought to... everything that went along with marrying her. Being sworn to the Night's Watch, he'd never considered any of it.

And now he was.

“I hope one day I'll have a wife and son as fine as yours, Tirgo.”

The other man smiled, putting his arm around his family, “One day,” he agreed.

Jon nodded to them all, and Missandei presumably bid a sort of “nice to meet you” in Dothraki before they turned to leave.

They went back to the center of the celebration, but the Queen had yet to arrive. So Jon walked with Missandei and Davos for a time, and she explained more about the Dothraki. She told them about their long braids and their curved swords or _arakhs,_ things Jon would have never thought to ask.

“ _Missandei_ ,” her name was called and followed by a string of grating Dothraki words.

Jon knew the man who approached them. He was Queensguard, the one who was always closest to Daenerys, but she was nowhere in sight. The guard was dressed differently, it was hard for Jon not to notice. Rather than various animal skins cinched together, he simply wore a vest over his bare torso, his chest painted with streaks of blue.

His braid was the longest.

“Lord Snow, this is Qhono, bloodrider to the Queen,” Missandei introduced them.

They nodded to each other, but something about the way Qhono looked down at Jon made him straighten his back and square his shoulders.

“Blood rider?” Davos questioned.

“He's pledged his life in service to his Khaleesi,” Missandei explained, “His blood is considered her own.”

Jon watched Qhono and Qhono watched him as he asked, “How did you come into your Queen's service?”

Missandei relayed the question, and translated the spouting Dothraki response. Jon listened as he was told about a _khalasar_ finding the _Silver Khaleesi_ alone in the wilderness, and then taking her to live out the rest of her days with the wives of past dead _Khals_... and then the great fire.

“Everyone inside was killed, except Queen Daenerys. She would not burn,” Missandei said, “He says he saw her step out of the flames. She stood at the foot of the burning temple, and they bowed before her. All Dothraki. He says he will bow to Daenerys until he rides with the Great Stallion into the afterlife. She is stronger than any man and any Khal.”

Jon held eye contact with Qhono as Missandei translated, and it felt as if he were holding his ground as well.

“He says he would cross the poison water a thousand times for Daenerys, kill all of her enemies, and break their backs so they bow to her even as he lays their corpses before the Mother of Mountains.”

Qhono took a step closer to Jon.

“Is Snow enemy of Khaleesi?” It sounded like a challenge rather than a question.

Jon didn't falter. “I will never be her enemy.”

After a beat of nothing, Qhono seemed satisfied with Jon's answer, and nodded as he stepped away.

Davos sighed in relief.

There was a commotion behind them. They turned as a chortle of “ _Khaleesi_ ” rang through the village, and then Jon saw her.

Daenerys was mounted atop a pure white mare, slowly cutting through the crowd with a small group of Dothraki women, men, and Ser Jorah walking alongside her horse.

She was dressed quite differently, Jon noticed. In Dothraki [garb](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/ac/0d/5d/ac0d5d5b112af6d8d0ce54e1c5469050--khaleesi-costume-game-of-throne-daenerys.jpg). Black horse skin trousers, and a skirt of horsehair cinched at her waist with a bronze medallion belt. She wore a brown leather vest, leaving her arms bare and painted with three cuffs of blue around each. Her silver hair was oiled into a single braid down her back.

Her braid was the longest, with bells woven into the strands. They sang as her horse carried her through the crowd.

It was a warm day, but Jon felt warmer as he watched Daenerys reach the center, and then Ser Jorah lent his hand to help her dismount.

Qhono appeared in front of Daenerys, breaking Jon's line of sight to her. He quickly glanced around him, he hadn't notice Qhono walk away, but Missandei and Davos still remained at his side, and Tirgo had appeared as well.

“Qhono asks the Queen's permission to spar you,” Missandei quietly explained, “They wish to test your strength.”

Jon looked around, noticing a few of the Queensguard that had since arrived were posing him with a look. “Have I offended them?” Jon asked.

“No. They are aware that the Queen intends to marry you. They want to know if you're a worthy consort,” Missandei said, “And the Dothraki judge a man's worth by strength and skill in fighting.”

Jon nodded, looking around at all of them and realizing his situation. He knew what he had to do.

“Alright then.” He started walking toward Qhono, whose back was still turned, speaking to Daenerys.

Davos, Missandei and Tirgo matched Jon's pace.

“Your Grace,” Davos used his concerned voice that he always did when Jon was about to do something reckless. “I don't know if you noticed, but he's a Dothraki screamer twice your size. I wouldn't advise crossing swords with him.”

“I noticed,” Jon said, not slowing his pace, “It's a spar, Davos.”

“You should know, it is unlike common sparring,” Missandei said, “He will use an edged blade, as is their custom. Only the most skilled warriors have such precision with a weapon. If blood is drawn when a stroke falls, the match is over.”

“Aye it's different than our way,” Jon agreed, but didn't change his mind.

They reached the Queen and Qhono. Daenerys was in the middle of spewing Dothraki, presumably objecting to Qhono's proposition, when they both turned to face him.

“I accept,” Jon said without any precursor.

Daenerys looked slightly exasperated, but not surprised by Jon's willingness. “It's not necessary,” she assured him.

“No, Your Grace, it's not,” Jon agreed, in a slightly defiant manner.

She let out a small breath, and her eyes slowly looked between the both of them before she relented. “Very well then.”

Qhono practically grinned, and then shouted something in Dothraki to one of the other Queensguard, who then brought Jon a sword. Not just any sword, Longclaw. They'd been planning for this.

Tirgo placed his hand on Jon's shoulder “ _Shieraki gori ha yeraan_.”

“He says the stars are charging for you.” It was Daenerys translating this time, and Jon's eyes immediately flocked to her. “It means good luck.”

They held each other's gaze for a moment before Jon said thank you to no one in particular, or to everyone. To the Queen, and Tirgo, Davos, Missandei and even Ser Jorah, all standing there watching him.

Jon met Qhono in the center where a large space had been cleared of people. He swung Longclaw around a few times to get used to holding a sword again. Qhono interpreted that as a show of skill and swung his _arakh_ menacingly.

It wasn't long before he charged at Jon, thrashing his weapon like hell unleashed. Jon mostly stayed on the defensive, blocking Qhono's advances while figuring out his style of fighting. It amazed Jon the first time Qhono landed a blow to his side without so much as skimming his tunic. He fought with brutish strength, much like the Free Folk's way, but there was a certain powerful grace to Qhono's every move.

Eventually, Jon found a sort of rhythm to Qhono's chaotic bout of swinging and slashing, and he was able to break it. He made his own advances, quickly switching the pace, and landing a few skin grazing blows of his own.

Battling Qhono on horseback would be a different story, but on their feet, it was Jon who had the upper hand. What he lacked in strength and ferocity, he made up for with skill. Eventually, he was able to throw off Qhono's rhythm completely, and the warlord's blade came slicing through the thick material of Jon's sleeve and nicked his arm.

The cheers from the surrounding crowd became shouts of what Jon could only assume meant “blood”, signifying the end of the match.

Qhono drew back, eyeing Jon with a look so intense that Jon couldn't tell whether he wanted to shake his hand or cut off his head. After a moment, Qhono grunted out, “Fight good.” Then a beat later, “For iron lord.”

Jon nodded. “You honor me, Qhono,” he said sincerely.

Davos along with Tirgo and Missandei came over then, congratulating him.

“I wish you hadn't done that,” Davos said, “But you did a fine job of it.”

“You're too kind, Davos,” Jon said, biting back the tiny bit of thrill buzzing through him.

The Queen approached as well, and Qhono said a few indiscernible words to her. She nodded in response. While Qhono went over to a group of children in the crowd, Jon was given back his sword belt by another Queensguard, rather than having it confiscated once more.

He gave Daenerys a questioning look as she came closer.

“Qhono asked if he might adorn you with blue. It's the Dothraki color of power,” she said, forgoing an explanation about allowing Jon to have his weapon back, “Only the most prestigious warriors in the Khalasar may wear blue, or be painted. It's a great honor.”

Jon held her gaze, taking in the information. “I see.”

Qhono returned with a few children carrying ribbons of blue fabric, and they all looked to him expectantly, including Daenerys.

He didn't hesitate before leaning down to the children's level. They chattered excitedly as they tied the fabric around Jon's wrists, and one of the small girls even reached out and tugged on his hair.

When he stood up, he heard Daenerys and Missandei laughing softly behind him.

“What is it?” he asked.

The Queen was smiling, “They call you _Naqis Ahesh Khal._ It means,” she paused, glancing at her friend, “Little Snow king.”

Jon regarded her for a moment, taking in her bright eyes and oiled hair. He found himself smiling too.

“Will you begin teaching them the Common Tongue, Your Grace?” Davos asked, referring to the children.

Daenerys' smile faded into her usual stolid expression that Jon had memorized by then. She looked just as regal in her horse skin garments as she did sitting in the throne room.

“No Ser,” she said, “I will teach the Seven Kingdoms Dothraki.”

With that, she walked away, followed by a few guards and her company. Jon and Davos exchanged a look before they went along with the others.

Daenerys led decisively, cutting into the crowd without a second thought. Jon's hand instinctively went to his sword, but no one made any threatening advances toward the Queen, instead they separated into two sides, making a path for her.

Jon watch nearly captivated as she slowly made her way through, greeting the people, taking their hands, embracing those who reached out for her, stopping to listen to those who had something to say. Jon could make out two things discernibly: _Khaleesi,_ and the other phrase Daenerys had told him once at their shared dinner. Blood of my blood, it meant.

The energy was alive but also warm. Jon couldn't really compare it to anything he'd felt before. He'd seen people show their devotion to a leader of course. People were devoted to his father, to Lord Commander Mormort, to Mance Rayder, to Stannis even. But that was loyalty, this was love.

Daenerys made it back to the center, and Jon stood by with the others as a sort of ceremony began. It was done entirely in Dothraki, but Jon was able to make out the gist of it without a translator.

Those who died in the battle with the Lannisters were being honored, and their families were being recognized for their losses. Daenerys gave them gifts, newly made bows and finer weapons for the sons, painted vests and elaborate treasures for the wives and daughters. It was a grand gesture.

When the ceremony ended, the drums began to play and even more platters of food were brought out, significantly loosening the mood. Daenerys then went up the raised ramp alone, and seated herself on the highest level.

No one else moved, not the Queensguard, and no one from the Queen's company, as if they were waiting for something.

“Jon Snow,” Daenerys said, nodding slightly toward the only other seat on the level next to her.

Jon's mind went blank suddenly, and he just stood there watching her for a long moment until he began to garner stares from the others, then he finally realized what he was meant to do. He walked up the ramp and took a seat on the trunk next to Daenerys. After him, everyone else was called out in a similar manner until all the levels were full.

Hosts then began serving the platters of food, offering them first to the Queen, and then Jon next to her, and then so on down the ramp. Hierarchy was never something Jon gave much thought to, but admittedly, he was surprised that Daenerys had chosen him to be in the position he was in. Second only to her.

When the celebrations began, it was clear that a Dothraki affair couldn't be compared to anything Jon had attended before. There were more sparring matches between the men for entertainment. The beat of the drums were the only music, and the women put on dances, throwing themselves around in ways that would scandalize nearly every lady in Westeros.

The food was different as well. Mainly horse meat and fish, what they had most abundantly on the island, and some game made into Dothraki blood pies. To drink, he was only offered fermented mare's milk.

“I wouldn't.” Daenerys warned from beside him, “It's an acquired taste.”

Jon took a swig anyway, and immediately wished he hadn't.

“Do you have any ale or... anything else?” he coughed.

“Honeyed wine for my guest.” The Queen told one of the servers, looking slightly amused. “Are you enjoying the celebration?” she asked him.

“It's a new experience for me,” Jon replied, and she seemed satisfied with his response. He meant it in more ways than the obvious. It was strangely new to him of course, but being at the height of the crowd with Daenerys by his side was quite a change from sitting in the shadows of the great hall at Winterfell to be sure.

Ser Jorah was just beneath the Queen, still looking slightly frail and making Jon wonder what exactly he'd found a cure to. Missandei was seated as well, next to Grey Worm who was no longer donning blood stained armor. Tirgo was just below Jon, watching the dancers and a few sparring matches that he'd apparently made the wrong bets on. “Losing silver like losing braid. Shame,” he explained.

Jon was enjoying the ordeal, watching Tirgo reluctantly hand over silver coins from his belt, but he was admittedly distracted. His thoughts kept returning to the unpleasant situation in the North, and he couldn't bring himself to focus on much else. He needed to speak to the Queen, but it didn't seem like the right setting to discuss such matters, and asking for a moment alone might insult her. All he could do was wait.

And wait he did, until it seemed like the celebration had come to end, the people where dispersing and Qhono approached the Queen once more. He was leading her white mare by the reins, and Jon looked closer and saw many of the other men were mounting their horses.

After a brief exchange, Daenerys stood and looked at Jon expectantly, and he followed her down the ramp where she took the reigns from Qhono.

“I wasn't able to ride with them after our victory in the field, so I will honor them now,” she explained to Jon while stroking the muzzle of her mare, “Will you ride with us?”

Jon shifted uncomfortably, looking around at so many nameless faces before his eyes fell to the ground, “I don't think that's my place.”

“You are my guest,” Daenerys reminded him. The firmness in her voice drew his eyes to her, and she stayed his gaze for a moment before gracefully mounting her horse. “You may ride with us if you wish.”

Jon nodded, accepting her offer, and almost immediately he was presented with a magnificent stallion, a true black beauty. Jon ran a gloved hand over its snout before mounting it.

Daenerys lead the way, and there must have been at least a hundred riders following behind, with Ser Jorah, Qhono and Tirgo among them, but it was Jon riding next to the Queen, and no one tried to supersede him.

Once they cleared the crowd, Daenerys and her mare suddenly broke into a full gallop and Jon had to ride hard to keep up with her. He was dazed for a moment, having been caught off guard, but he should have come to expect her surprises by then.

They rode through the rolling green hills of the island and off the coast of the cliffs. Jon's stallion was wild at heart and but sensitive to commands, picking up a tremendous amount of speed but keeping it under such precision and control.

Daenerys and her mare were like white lightning. Every so often Jon would pull ahead of her, but then she'd come surging forward like a storm, still beside him but just a nose ahead. The bells in her hair were ringing like mad, with every trot they sang. It was a sweet sound but also mighty, resonated with power. Her presence was heard as well as seen.

Jon had witnessed this same woman on the back of a dragon, cutting through stars and chasing the moon. He could hardly believe she was just as formidable on the back of her mare, right there on the ground racing to the edge of the sun.

“The wind is ours, Jon Snow,” she called over the beat of a thousand hooves.

Jon looked over, regarding her. She was smiling, grinning even. More carefree and happier than usual. The sight warmed him, Daenerys with her painted arms, and the sun catching her silver hair, the blue waters of the bay and the lush foliage of the island surrounding her. She was like a painting come to life.

“We are the wind,” Jon said back, the only way he knew how to describe the feeling. Lawless and alive.

Daenerys smiled even larger, burning a hole right through him.

The two of them rode down to the shores of the beach while the rest of the riders went on for another lap around the island. They stopped at the edge of the water, letting the horses rest. Daenerys searched the air, and after a moment the once empty skies were filled with dragons, as if they'd sensed their mother seeking them out.

The Queen watched her dragons, and Jon watched the remaining Dothraki horseman ride seamlessly through the brush and forestry as if the trees moved for them, until they disappeared from sight.

“They're not what I expected coming here,” he said aloud.

“What's that?” Daenerys asked, not looking at him, “Fly bitten savages?”

Jon paused. “I didn't say that.”

“I was the same,” she replied confessedly, still staring across the distance. “At my wedding, I remember thinking they were beasts in human skin. Then I lived among them, and learned their ways, and their words. I began to understand them.”

Finally she looked over at Jon, meeting his eyes. “They've done savage things,” she admitted, “But I'm afraid it's rare to find a man who's innocent of that, even among your great lords of Westeros.”

Jon hated that she was right. Everywhere in the world, from across the Narrow Sea to the shit stained streets of King's Landing, men do savage things.

“Still, a crime is a crime regardless of which man commits it,” she went on, holding his gaze, “But my people are done with that. Pillaging, reaving, raping. That's for small men with small minds.”

“Aye, it is.” Jon agreed.

Daenerys regarded him for a moment before she looked seemingly content with his response. She lead her mare forward, walking along the shore of the bay, and Jon followed, his stallion trotting beside her.

“In your time at the Wall,” her voice came, “Were you ever among the Wildlings?”

Jon gave her a curious look, wondering what lead her to that question. She must have felt his eyes boring into her because she offered a brief explanation. “You said you allowed the Free Folk through the Wall, there must have been a reason.”

Jon said nothing for a long moment. There were reasons. He'd spent the better part of the last year contemplating those reasons. Why he tried to rescue all of the Free Folk, why he let them through the Wall. The reasons why he chose to save lives, were the same reasons that lead to his own murder.

Daenerys' eyes drew to him when he still hadn't answered.

“I was a prisoner of the King Beyond the Wall once,” Jon finally spoke. “I lived among them, gained their trust enough to get myself back to Castle Black. I learned a lot about them and used it to beat back their army.”

“And what was it that you learned?” Daenerys asked, a deepness in her eyes as if she held a certain understanding even without being told the entire story.

“They had the numbers, but no discipline, no training,” Jon said a bit perfunctorily, “You could hardly get a group of them together without them killing each other.”

Daenerys said nothing in response, as if she somehow knew he wasn't finished. She waited, only the sound of her bells singing softly between them. When he looked over at her, glowing under the light of the sun, he willingly gave the rest.

“And just because they were born on the wrong side of the Wall, didn't make them monsters.”

Daenerys hummed, “I suppose we learn the most in situations where we expect the least,” she said, “Tyrion says the truth is always inconvenient that way.”

Jon stayed silent, mulling over her words, realizing how fitting it all was for the current state of things. Matters becoming more complicated with Jon learning just how wrong he'd been about Daenerys.

“You're not what I expected coming here either,” Jon heard himself say.

The Queen's eyes cut to Jon, and he saw the fires return to them. “I suppose you expected me to be like my father,” she said, a sharp edge in her voice, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Jon lead his horse forward and pulled in front of Daenerys' path, cutting off her mare and bringing them to a full stop.

“What do you think you're doing?” she snapped harshly at him.

“I'm glad you're not like your father,” Jon replied firmly, bordering on defiant, “But it hasn't made things any easier.”

Slowly, the Queen's features soothed out in recognition and she softened considerably, her fires diminished for now.

“Has the easy thing ever been the right thing?” she mused softly.

A beat passed. “Not once.”

“No, of course not,” she said, staying his gaze. “And you don't strike me as a person who looks for the easy way out of things. I imagine it was difficult for you coming here, even, but here you are," she went on, “I find it hard to believe you went through the trouble to do nothing at all.”

Jon's gaze lowered to the ground. He let out a small breath, realizing that there was no use in them carrying on, back and forth the way they were. He'd already made his decision, there was nothing more to do but say it, and make it real. His eyes wandered over the sandy shore, as if he'd find the right words somewhere in the sand.

“I've been thinking a lot about why I came here, and it wasn't for nothing,” he began. “I didn't come to bend the knee, or marry you, or surrender the North,” he spoke truthfully. “I risked everything for a chance to convince you to help us. That's all. Nothing's changed about why I came.”

He chanced a look at her when he'd finished, and her expression was already hardening, laden with disbelief.

“Then why—”

“It's you,” he interrupted her, “You're different.”

No other words left her mouth, and she tried to return to her usual stoicism but Jon saw what she meant to hide. He saw her.

“Your Graces!”

Jon heard the voice of his Hand along with the sound of approaching hooves beating in the sand. It was the last thing he wanted to hear in that moment.

He turned exasperatedly, “A moment, Davos—”

“There's been word from Winterfell.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait yikes. I think I'm just going to start doing smaller chapters like this so I can update more frequently. 
> 
> Anyways, we needed more interaction between Jon and the Dothraki while he was at dragonstone in season 7. I wished he would have had a few buddies in the show, but since we didn't, I gave him some myself.
> 
> And here's some unnecessary pronunciation guides for my ocs  
> Tirgo: Teer-Go the “ir” is pronounced like the word “ear”  
> Tilo: Tea-Low  
> Qirri: Keer-ee
> 
> With that being said, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! Any comments and kudos are very appreciated, let me know what you think!


	4. And Neither of Them Turned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She thought about trivial things. She thought about less trivial things.
> 
> Mostly however, Daenerys thought about Jon Snow.

Daenerys shed her tribal wear, had the bells removed from her hair, and the paint scrubbed from her arms before she donned her usual gown. She would have liked to have a bath after riding, but there was no time given that Jon Snow had all but summoned _her_ small council.

Traditionally as Queen, she called her own council meetings, not a Northern dignitary with no solid ties to her or her cause. Nevertheless, that fact was almost entirely lost on her. She was more concerned with why Jon Snow had requested an immediate audience, just shortly after speaking with his Hand, Ser Davos.

Qhono escorted her to the council room, she was the last to arrive. Her advisers Tyrion, Lord Varys, Jorah and Missandei stood upon her arrival and she waved them back down. Ser Davos was there as well, looking apprehensive, the aged lines in his face were more pronounced with the way he frowned.

Jon Snow stood at the head of the table, his expression withdrawn, he'd barely glanced up as Daenerys walked in. He was absorbed in his own mind, the way he so often was. With his features drawn together in thought, his face resigned in shifting shadows.

Daenerys seated herself at the opposite end. Everyone looked to her to begin the meeting, but she only looked to Jon, who remained pensively quiet.

“Speak freely, Jon Snow,” Daenerys addressed him, “I'm sure we're all wondering why you summoned us here.”

His responding silence stretched over a moment too long, and Lord Varys began spinning one of his webs.

“It could have something to do with the raven scroll that arrived addressed to the King in the North, Your Grace,” the Spider seemed satisfied with the way he'd all but trapped Jon Snow like a fly.

Ser Davos spoke up then, “A _sealed_ scroll arrived from Winterfell carrying word from the King's siblings.”

Daenerys observed the pointed look the Knight gave to the Spider, then set her attention back to Jon.

“And what did the King's siblings have to say?” she asked, her unprompted acknowledgment of his title felt quaint on her tongue.

Jon's eyes remained downcast when he finally spoke, shifting the before mentioned raven scroll between his fingers.

“I thought my sister Arya was dead. I thought my brother Bran was dead.” His voice was solemn, but his words were plain enough. Fortunate news of not only one but two surviving siblings during an unfortunate time. Something Daenerys never had the pleasure of receiving, but she understood nonetheless.

“I'm happy for you,” she spoke honestly, though his expression remained unchanged. “You don't look happy.”

A moment passed, and when Jon looked up, the troubling thoughts that once clouded his eyes were gone, pushed aside for now.

“I left my sister Sansa as regent in my absence. A few of the Northern Lords are threatening to desert Winterfell if I don't return soon,” he spoke pragmatically, tossing the raven scroll onto the map table. “I need to go home, I have to garner my people together. I can't lose my army.”

Daenerys tensed at his words. “You said you didn't have enough men anyway,” she argued weakly, surprising herself with her sudden indisposition at the mere suggestion of him leaving.

“We need every last man we can get,” Jon argued, “Then our combined forces might stand a chance against the Night King.”

Tyrion cleared his throat, “Forgive me, but I don't recall our forces ever combining,” he spoke candidly. “I know I don't have the best reputation for being sober enough to remember things, but that's a detail even I couldn't miss.”

Jon looked exasperated. “The Queen said she'd help us—”

“I said,” Daenerys calmly cut in. “I would fight for the North when their King bent the knee. Which unless I'm mistaken, you've made no promises to do.”

Her words seemed to give him pause. “And if I were to bend the knee right now,” he said slowly, “You'd keep your word and march North?”

She held his gaze. “I've given you no reason to distrust me,” she said, “I intend to honor my word. _After_ I've taken the throne.”

Jon seemed nearly incredulous, his expression wavered between dismay and disbelief. “This war won't wait while you finish yours, Your Grace.”

Daenerys felt the flares of her temper rising. “It has to and it will. I can't simply march my armies north and allow Cersei to take back half the country.”

Jon's expression hardened, his jaw clenched. “Cersei can wait.”

“If you'd like to walk into King's Landing and inform her, then be my guest,” she uttered coldly, and Jon's eyes fell to the floor as he became more flustered. Her advisers around the table grew uneasy at the back and forth exchange, sinking further into their chairs. All except Tyrion.

“Perhaps he should,” her Hand mused.

Daenerys fixed her eyes on Tyrion, giving him a questioning look, as did the rest of her company.

“Not that exact scenario, and not Jon Snow, my sister would definitely kill him,” Tyrion explained, “But we could convince her of a temporary truce. Once the Dothraki begin the siege of the capitol, she'll be desperate for a way out.”

Daenerys shook her head slightly, unconvinced. “Cersei knows the way out is winning the war, she only cares about destroying everyone in her path to get there.”

“She might be more reasonable if she knew there were a bigger threat to her than us,” Tyrion pressed on.

“So what are you suggesting Tyrion?” Daenerys gave in and asked, folding her hands atop the table.

Tyrion explained his idea of a perilous mission beyond the wall to capture a soldier from the army of the dead. Daenerys listened as they fleshed out their roles, Davos the smuggler and Tyrion the negotiator. She could hardly bear it when Jorah agreed to this foolhardy plan. And when Jon Snow decided to lead the dangerous excursion himself, she found herself at a loss.

“No,” she said, ceasing their preparations. “It's an unnecessary risk, and we'd be fools to trust anything Cersei agreed to.”

“If we do nothing,” Jon said in all seriousness, “Then we'll be dead fools.”

Daenerys maintained her resolve. “I won't give you my permission.”

“With respect, Your Grace, I don't need your permission.”

The silence that followed was deafening as it filled the room.

Everyone's eyes flitted back and forth between the two of them, but they remained still and quiet, suffocating in the tension. Daenerys contained her reaction, as insulted as she was by Jon's forwardness, she became severely engaged in what he had to say.

“I risked everything to come here because it was best for my people, for _all_ of our people, and I will _never_ give up on them, no matter the risk.” Jon spoke directly to her. “So put me in chains, behead me, burn me alive if you want. That's the only way you'll stop me from doing what has to be done.”

Daenerys wanted to open her mouth and say something, admonish him, argue, command him to the bend the knee, _anything_. But she couldn't bring herself to act.

“Or let me go north,” he went on, his tone firm but desperate in some ways, his eyes defiant but pleading. “Let me get the proof we need to convince everyone to fight together, then we might be able to send them back to the rotting hell they came from.”

His words made Daenerys realize that for first time in years, the choice wasn't really hers to make. She felt as if she should be the one on her knees, begging Jon Snow for something she wasn't sure she even understood yet.

This went beyond that in any case. What sort of a Queen would she be to stand between Jon and his duty to his people.

She wanted to refuse, she knew she couldn't, but she wanted to anyway.

In the end, she simply nodded and said, “As you will,” stood and left.

*

In the Free Cities, Daenerys had often heard Westeros called the Sunset Kingdoms.

She thought they must have been the grandest sight in the world to earn the name. She'd once told Viserys how much she'd longed to see one herself. He'd grabbed her by her hair then, told her that it was a stupid thing to want, and she'd sooner see his fist than a bloody sunset if she didn't hush up about it.

But there she stood now, beneath the arches of the war council room, watching the sun fade into the eastern sky over her family's ancestral home. While Viserys was wearing the crown he chased right into his grave, she'd returned to the Seven Kingdoms at last, ready to best the great lords of Westeros at the very game they loved to play so much.

Though the great game was proving mostly to be a game of waiting, Daenerys had found.

So much had transpired in the last few days. The Dothraki had begun the siege of King's Landing, while a fraction of the Unsullied were sent to occupy the Reach and Casterly Rock, in wake of Cersei's armies being called back to defend the capitol.

Tyrion's reckless plan had also been set into motion. By then, Ser Davos would be smuggling him into the city if all was going accordingly, and they hadn't been captured or worse, killed.

Jon Snow had been making himself scarce, busy mining and forging weapons from the dragonglass. He was trying to collect as much as he could to take back to Winterfell on their way North, he'd hardly been seen except in passing.

All the while, Daenerys waited. She waited and she thought. She'd done more waiting and thinking than could be good for a person.

She thought about trivial things, like stories she'd heard about her brother Rhaegar, and wondered how things would be different if he were there to help her. She thought about less trivial things, like her lost fleet and murdered allies, Lady Olenna who she still mourned for, and if her army had enough food to eat.

Mostly however, Daenerys thought about Jon Snow.

He was no less frustrating than the man she'd met in the throne room, stubbornly defying her will with a sense of passionate righteousness. But he was also the man who told her about her late uncle, not for his own gain, only for her sake. And he was the same man who respected her people's traditions, who willingly sparred her bloodrider and earned his place, who had smiled at the affection from the children in the Khalasar.

It was his words that resounded in her mind more often lately, his voice that she heard inside her head when her own thoughts were too loud or too silent.

More presently however, she found herself thinking back to the council meeting.

_Let me go north_

He'd begged her, and she could hardly conjure the will to let him go.

Daenerys hadn't expected to be so indisposed to Jon leaving. When the prospect had come to light, something gave within her that couldn't be contained, no matter how much she tried to suppress it, and she didn't know why.

She told herself it was because they'd yet to reach any real accordance, which was her sole reason for inviting the King in the North to treat with her anyway. It wasn't wise from a political stand to allow Jon to leave Dragonstone with the way things were, not even for a temporary mission.

In truth, it frightened her to consider it was something more.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, she looked down to the shores of the island, and saw Jon Snow walking along the beach.

He appeared to be done with the mine for the day, accompanied by a band of men, some of his own, and some of Daenerys'. He was laughing at something Tirgo was saying.

They came closer, still a fair bit away, but Daenerys could see when Jon noticed her.

He looked up and she half expected him to look away, instead he stopped in his path while the others continued on without him.

Jon stared up at her unabashedly, as if it were the first time he'd laid eyes on her. He stood there, watching her watching him, and Daenerys couldn't have turned away from his gaze if she wanted to. The moments stretched on, it could have been one, or it could have been ten. It could have lasted the rest of her life, and she wouldn't mind.

That's when she knew.

She knew by the way her breath hitched. She knew by the light thrum in her chest of her heartbeat quickening. She knew by the way the pit of her stomach grew warm, and her cheeks burned red, and the fine hairs on her skin stood tall.

Daenerys could give Jon permission to leave a thousand times over, but she couldn't let him go, not really.

She couldn't, because when she looked at him, she didn't simply see the key to the North anymore.

She saw so much more.

“My Queen?”

Daenerys nearly startled at the sound of Missandei's voice. She turned as the other girl approached, her expression mildly concerned and confused.

“Is there something wrong?”

Daenerys shook her head reassuringly at her friend, and when she turned back toward the window, her eyes flocked to the previous spot on the beach, but Jon Snow was gone, as if he'd never been there at all.

*

In the early hours of the morning, Daenerys rose from a short night of restless sleep. She'd called off her guards and strode down to the battlements of the castle. She'd wanted to be alone.

From where she sat on the ledge of the ramparts, she could see her dragons sleeping soundly in the grass, while the first lights of day peeked over the cliffs of the island. It was a peaceful sight, but it did nothing to soothe her troubled mind.

Tyrion had returned the night before, his business in King's Landing had been a success, Cersei agreed to the meeting. It should have been good news, but it only made Daenerys fret even more about the ordeal.

It also meant Jon Snow would be leaving later that morning.

Daenerys still hadn't changed her thoughts about that, so she tried not to think about it. Though it was difficult, on a night so quiet and lonely as that one, she could hardly keep her mind from straying back to the matter.

Sitting atop the ledge, she could see further down the beach, just able to make out the spot where they'd rode out a few days before. She and Jon Snow on horseback, they'd been there at the edge of the water, speaking privately, words so candid that she later doubted if they were ever truly spoken. That her mind must have been playing tricks on her.

But it was no trick. Daenerys didn't think she'd ever forget the way Jon had spoken, looking over at her from atop his black stallion.

_It's you. You're different._

He'd said, with the salty sea winds rushing through the air around them.

That was all he'd been able to say before they were interrupted, and Daenerys still hadn't figured out what he might have said if they hadn't been. What he might have done. If only Ser Davos had appeared a moment later, or if Jon had spoken a moment sooner. Frankly, she was driving herself mad with all the possibilities.

The sound of approaching footsteps was enough to bring her out of her thoughts. It was a welcomed sound, she realized, she hadn't truly wanted to be alone.

She didn't have to look around to know who was paying her an early morning visit. She already knew who it was.

“Can't sleep, Jon Snow?” she spoke into the air, “Or do you enjoy waking before dawn?”

He was silent for a moment, probably surprised that she knew it was him without turning around.

“A bit of both, Your Grace,” his voice sounded tired, “I could ask you the same.”

“And I would tell you the same,” she replied. “You're leaving in the morning?” she asked carefully. Though she already knew the answer, she had to satisfy the pressing need in her chest to ask.

“Aye that's the plan,” Jon said on an exhale. “I have something I need to ask of you.”

Daenerys tipped her chin toward her shoulder, barely seeing him from the corner of her eye. “What is it?”

He shifted uncomfortably, but didn't hesitate. “I don't have enough men for the mission north, I don't need many, but if I could take the men you serviced to me for mining, it would help.”

Daenerys could tell how unpleasant it was for him to ask something of her, despite his efforts to hide it, he couldn't quite swallow all of his pride.

“You may ask them to accompany you, and they may go if they choose,” she appeased him, “I won't command them to.” She'd seen how taken he'd become with his serviced men, and truthfully, she was curious to see how taken they'd become with him. She'd be impressed if he convinced even one of the Dothraki to follow him into a frozen wasteland.

“Thank you,” he sounded relieved. “Will you be coming down to the beach to see us off?”

Daenerys turned away from him once more. “I'm considering it.”

Her mind wasn't entirely made up yet. She always hated goodbyes, never knowing if it was a final farewell and left wondering. Waiting for something that may never come. Suffering more with each passing day because letting go was harder than keeping on. Daenerys was done with all that. Hope was double ended blade she knew better than to reach for.

Though she had a feeling that if Jon Snow handed her the other half, she might cling to it for as long as she could.

“You still think this is a waste of time,” Jon said, sounding dejected.

“An unnecessary risk,” Daenerys reiterated.

A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. “We don't know each other well, we might be strangers, but we've had enough faith in each other this far. Now would be the worst time to stop.”

It was true, admittedly. Their inexplicable, blind reliance on each other was the sole reason they'd even gotten to where they were.

“I trust that you're doing what you think is right,” Daenerys said, her voice soft but empty.

“That'll be enough.”

She heard him take a step closer to her, and finally she turned to face him.

He looked tired, working nonstop in the mines must have taken its toll. Or perhaps he was growing as weary as she was about his upcoming mission.

Daenerys moved to come down from the ledge, and Jon promptly offered his hand. She hesitated slightly before taking it, and Jon faltered as well, as if neither of them had expected him to do that.

Jon guided her as she climbed down, and where their palms touched, they were warm. When Daenerys stepped in front of him, she could hardly take in the heat of how close they were before Jon stepped back, releasing her hand back into the crisp morning air.

“I um,” he cleared his throat, his eyes falling to the ground as he reached inside his cloak, “I made this for you.”

Daenerys watched as he pulled something from his tunic.

“From what I know, your family used to have their weapons decorated with dragonglass. So,” he said, holding out something in his palm, “I thought this might be meaningful to you.”

Daenerys took the small thing and turned it over in her hand. It was a pin, a brooch with a single silver head of a dragon, and from it, there was a dragon claw, black and opaque, carved from dragonglass.

“It's beautiful,” she said, a small smile tugging at her lips as she studied the bit of finery. It was sculpted surprisingly well, considering that he was clearly not a jeweler, and made with genuine silver.

“As thanks for allowing me to mine the glass,” Jon went on, his tone growing somewhat reticent, “It's a small thing, not worth much but—”

“You've given me a treasure,” she assured him. It was a grand gesture coming from Jon Snow, not only to present her with a gift, but something that he made himself, something that he put thought into. He knew how she felt about her family, and he carved that dragonglass because he wanted it to be meaningful to her. And it was.

“Thank you.”

Daenerys studied the brooch for a moment longer before pinning it to the front of her dress. When she looked up, Jon had this strange look in his eyes that she couldn't describe. But it reminded her of the way he'd been when he told her about her uncle. She felt sort of like she had then too. Like he was giving her back another small piece of her world.

“It was a,” he cleared his throat again, “A shit effort until some of the Dothraki women helped me with it.”

“How did you manage convince them?” Daenerys raised her brow.

“Missandei might have had a hand in that. You do have quite the people on this island,” he said, and Daenerys knew that he was speaking honestly when he did. He'd gotten to know her people first hand since he'd been there. He'd worked with them, ate with them, he'd even rode with them.

Jon hadn't been there long, but already Daenerys could feel the weight of his absence. His time at Dragonstone was limited, slipping away like sand through her fingers with each passing moment.

“A few days ago,” she said, suddenly unable to ignore the curiosity gnawing at her, “When we rode out with my riders, you and I were speaking, do you remember? I believe you were getting around to telling me something.”

Jon blinked as if he immediately recalled the conversation, but for whatever reason, he didn't want to continue it. He looked away, out across the water, and then down to the ground, before his eyes found hers again.

“I'll tell you when I get back.”

That's what he said, but Daenerys knew what he meant.

He might not come back.

And in that case, he didn't want her knowing whatever it was he almost told her before.

“Your Grace,” he gave her a nod and then quickly turned to leave.

Daenerys watched him walking away from her, and she wanted to force him back, she wanted to _make_ him tell her, whatever it was. But she knew she couldn't do that, because she knew she didn't really want to. In truth, she didn't really know what she wanted.

She only knew that she couldn't bear the weight of not knowing, if he didn't return. She hated not knowing. She hated clinging to hope.

“Don't die, Jon Snow,” she heard herself say after him. Please. Please don't die.

Jon turned around to face her then, and he paused for a moment. In the pale light of the morning, she could have imagined the faint smile on his face when he said, “I have a bad habit of always coming back.”

Whether it was a trick of her mind or not, Daenerys tried to memorize that smile before he turned away again.

It was like he placed the edged end of a knife in her hand. Walking away from her, but expecting her to have faith that he would return. To trust that she wouldn't be left wondering for the rest of her days.

Watching his figure fade into the distance, Daenerys felt the first pangs as she found herself grasping onto that familiar knife, relying on nothing but hope and Jon Snow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's chapter 4! Sorry about the long wait and the short chapter I'm such a slow writer, but I hope you guys don't mind.
> 
> So what did you guys think of it? We know what Jon was going to tell Dany but she doesn't, I hope it makes sense why he didn't tell her? But if not, it'll be explained more when we get to Jon's POV again, of course.
> 
> I'm trying not to rewrite scenes that happened exactly like they did in the show, but the council meeting transpired slightly different. The letter said nothing about the Night King being at Eastwatch because I still don't understand why Jon would go there with barely any men knowing that the entire army of the dead was near, so instead, Sansa just warned him about the northern lords, which makes more sense to me that he would agree to Tyrion's plan. 
> 
> But poor Dany doesn't want him to go and I was so sad during episode 5 for her!
> 
> And here is something [SIMILAR](https://img.etsystatic.com/il/174d8f/1291941850/il_570xN.1291941850_mefs.jpg?version=0) to the pin Jon made for Dany (': not exactly that but just so you get an idea 
> 
> Next chapter is where things really diverge from the show
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading and let me know what you guys thought! Comments and kudos are VERY APPRECIATED! (:


	5. Nothing Is The Hardest Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys bears the unbearable.

“You've outdone yourself, Tyrion, this mission may be your worst idea to date.”

Daenerys took the wine goblet Missandei offered her, and sipped at it, standing near the hearth in the council room, watching the flames slowly devour the logs.

Tyrion swirled his wine pensively from where he sat by the fire, “My worst idea that you agreed to. With some slight convincing from Jon Snow,” he added, “Though in your defense, his mysterious brooding demeanor, and penchant for unprompted climactic speeches can be quite persuasive.”

Daenerys disregarded her Hand, not wanting to further encourage what he was implying. In any case, he was right. Jon Snow was a frustratingly driven, inscrutable man.

He'd left that morning, with his accumulation of dragonglass, and all of the men Daenerys had serviced to him, including three of her bloodriders, and Jorah. She had stood on the shores of the beach, watching them all so eagerly follow Jon into the jaws of death. She wasn't well-versed with farewells, but Jon was even less so. He'd left her with a tepid goodbye, and a pendant to clutch onto while he walked away from her without looking back.

“I couldn't have stopped him.” Daenerys cleared her throat, keeping her hand from impulsively reaching down to the pendant.

Tyrion hummed noncommittally, “You could have.”

“You could have kept your foolhardy plan where you keep the rest of your _great_ ideas,” she retorted, rather than admit that she could have imprisoned Jon Snow, or worse, to stop him. But it was _that_ she couldn't do.

“Yes, the mission is a desperate move, recklessness that I would normally advise against, but these are unnatural times,” Tyrion said, “Unfortunately for us, with White Walkers and an army of dead men approaching, the fine line between what's best and what's right grows fainter by the hour.”

Daenerys hummed, “A wise man once said it's always worth it to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences.” The warmth in the memory of being told about her Uncle gave her some comfort in knowing that she hadn't erred by accepting Jon's decision. She trusted that he was doing what he thought was right.

“Was Jon Snow this wise man? That sounds awfully like something a Stark would say,” Tyrion sounded unconvinced, “I knew a man who always did the right thing. Maybe you've heard of Ned Stark? Perhaps you'd like to meet him, the spike where his head is mounted is quite lovely.”

“It wasn't a Stark,” Daenerys said, ignoring his satire.

“Well I'd like to meet the man who thinks consequences are not of consequence,” Tyrion replied.

Daenerys took another sip of wine, staring deeper into the flames. “So would I.”

For once, her Hand was at a loss for words.

Missandei politely cleared her throat, “It's a heroic philosophy.”

“Yes, yes,” Tyrion agreed admittedly, “It's the very creed of a hero,” he went on, “Given the choice of being brave or being a fool, choose both and be a hero.”

Daenerys looked away from the fire then, and faced her Hand. “That's what I like about you Tyrion. You're not a hero. Heroes do stupid things and they die.”

Drogo, Jorah, Daario and even Jon Snow. All brave men did seem to yearn for the grave, always dancing too close to death. She told Tyrion as much, and he observed that all the heroes she named happened to fall in love with her. Daenerys dismissed the statement immediately, without allowing herself any time to dwell on the implications. Jon Snow was not in love with her.

“My mistake,” Tyrion said, swirling his wine glass, “I suppose he gave you that pendant to wear over your heart as a token of... his hope for a successful military alliance, and not a token of his love.”

Again, Daenerys resisted the urge to rest her hand against the pendant.

“He spent days working on it, Your Grace,” Missandei added, “He even asked assistance to ensure it was fine enough for you to wear.”

Daenerys turned away from them, leaving the warmth of the hearth to stand near the window. She couldn't look at them, seeing everything they thought they knew written all over their faces. Tyrion's disapproving condescension, and Missandei's shared concern, having recently seen Grey Worm off as well.

They had no idea. How much she hated feeling utterly useless. She spent her life in foreign lands, wishing for home, powerless to do anything about it. That was a long time ago, but standing there in her castle doing nothing but wait for an outcome, she felt like that helpless girl again. Hoping for a hero despite how deeply it cut.

“It was a gift of gratitude for allowing him to mine the dragonglass, and I accepted. As it was the only thing he offered since setting foot on this island,” Daenerys spoke pragmatically. “He may not return from this mission. We need to consider alternative plans for the North in that case.”

It was no relief that Jon had all but agreed to her initial proposition. _If_ the mission succeeded and Jon came back and by some stroke of luck, Cersei agreed to the truce, _then_ he would pledge himself to Daenerys, and she would march North. The terms were too brittle, and the politics of the situation seemed so trivial to her now.

A beat of silence passed, before Tyrion asked slowly, “Is it only the North you worry of losing, Your Grace?”

Daenerys tipped her chin toward her shoulder, “I worry of how you'll continue to advise me without a tongue.” She fixed him in her sights from the corner of her eye. “I assure you my interests remain political, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion seemed content with her answer, replenishing his wine, “Good, my Queen,” he said, “I'm afraid love and politics have a very long and terrible history together.”

Daenerys rejoined them near the hearth, done with the matter for now, she changed the subject. “If all goes well, I'll finally get to meet your sister.”

*

Time passed like sand. The more Daenerys tried to grasp onto it, the quicker it seemed to slip through her fingers.

She relied on very few things to relieve the monotony of her days. Her dragons, her queenly duties, and her discussions with her Hand.

Though their conversations were less frequent as of late, since Tyrion had transcended his previous record of overstepping his bounds.

He'd mentioned the succession issue as if it were his problem to solve that no one else seemed concerned with. As if it weren't always weighing on Daenerys' mind that she was vying to take the throne and inherit all Seven Kingdoms, while being the last member of her family with no way to further her line.

As if she needed a reminder that she would never again bear a living child.

Now she was plagued memories from a life long ago, her days at Drogo's side when her son had still been a part of her, growing strong and filling her with his fire, then he was ripped away from her as quickly as he'd come. He was her first and her last, and she never even had the chance to lay eyes on him.

Not only were her days burdened with the weight of her barrenness, but also the pressures of ruling, not to mention being in the middle of a war, and maintaining the siege of the capitol while she remained at Dragonstone weighed on her relentlessly. Like stones piling onto her chest, it was all difficult to bear, but perhaps the heaviest burden of all, was the mission North.

Two thousand leagues away, Jon Snow would be leading his band of brave fools. They'd probably marched straight into the perils beyond the Wall, come face to face with the army of the dead, as if they were immune to suffer the same fate as their foes. Though Daenerys imagined Jon Snow would face death the same way he faced life. Defying everything that stood in the way of his righteous path, even the grave.

He probably could have used a dragon or three, but Daenerys could only do what she could do.

She waited. She wondered. She wished. She hoped. She held onto the edge of a knife.

With each day that passed, another stone was added to the pile.

Daenerys was powerless to do anything but bear the unbearable.

More weight.

-

A week passed.

Daenerys found no relief in her previous comforts.

The sight of her dragons only served to remind her that they were the only children she'd ever have. Or perhaps they'd be taken from her as well. Perhaps she wasn't meant to be a mother of any kind.

When she looked upon Rhaegal, her dark green beauty whose scales gleamed like jade just before dusk, she imagined him wounded and falling from the sky, his shrieks pierced her ears like a baby's cry.

Daenerys quickly rid her mind of the terrible image, but it was too late, she'd never be able to undo what she saw. She could only hope that the image wouldn't ring true.

She wanted to pray to the Gods that she didn't believe in, and beg them not to take her dragons. They'd taken her mother, both of her brothers, her entire family, even some of her close friends. But please, not her dragons.

More weight.

-

A sleepless night turned into an early morning, another day, another briefing from her advisers on the current state of things. On her way to the council room, Daenerys passed through the throne room. Again she felt the pull to the regal seat carved from stone, but she resisted.

Instead she found her steps haunted by whispers.

_You'll get that throne you want so badly, I'm sure of it. I hope it brings you happiness._

Daario Naharis had said to her at their last meeting. Somewhat spiteful, somewhat genuine. What she would expect coming from him. Still, his words resonated eerily within her in that moment, as she avoided the path to her family's ancestral seat.

_You'll be ruling over a graveyard, if we don't defeat the Night King._

The words Jon Snow had said to her at their first meeting, in that very room, as boldly determined as ever. Though Daenerys felt differently than when she'd first heard the ominous statement. She was filled with incredulity and suspicions then, but now, she was torn between her need to protect her people, and her unwillingness to accept that they were all going to die if she didn't.

More weight.

-

A fortnight passed.

In Daenerys' dreams she saw deep brown defiant eyes.

She saw Dragonstone on a warm day, with the sun reflecting off the bay, casting a million crystal-like shadows across the water, and horses galloping over the green cliffs, bringing the island to life with the beat of their hooves thrumming into the earth like a heartbeat. She felt the breeze on her face, the bells in her hair sang sweetly as the salt from the sea air clung to her cheeks.

She heard a voice cut through the noise.

_We are the wind._

Daenerys smiled in her sleep, and when she woke, she tried to chase the fleeting remnants of her dream, but it was gone, as if it had never been there at all.

-

She waited. She wondered. She wished. She hoped. She held onto the edge of a knife.

Another stone was added to the pile.

More weight.

-

Daenerys had a tub brought to her chambers, and asked Missandei if she would draw her a bath, as she was no longer a handmaiden. Missandei agreed, and Daenerys was grateful, she needed her friend.

The bath was hot, still steaming as she stepped in. The water was too hot to touch for Missandei, but for Daenerys the heat was welcome. She laid back and closed her eyes as her friend added oils and essences to the water, basking in the scents.

They reminded her of the East, the heady sweet perfumes of Lys and spiced pear brandy of Tyrosh mingling with the other smells of the Eastern market. She loved to play in the bazaar when she was a girl. Her soap smelled of honeyfingers, the sweet cakes Viserys used to buy for her when they had enough coin.

The Western market was less curious. It smelled of mud-baked bricks and animal pens, and was filled with the sounds of steel being forged and the clatter of Lannisport goldwork. Of course, when Daenerys had been there she was more drawn to the Western market because it smelled of home.

Now she knew that she had no idea what home was then. She had no idea about anything.

But she also knew there was beauty in her life then.

Beauty. A fickle and fleeting thing, with the turn of a page, beauty could become something so dreadfully terrible that it was unrecognizable.

Daenerys remembered the house in Braavos with the red door and the lemon tree outside the window. She also remembered the assassins that drove her away from the nearest thing she had to a real home.

From watching the free people of Mereen embrace her while stepping over their broken chains, to staring death in the face as the Sons of the Harpy closed in around her in the fighting pits.

Riding at the head of a Khalasar forty thousand strong, taming the Dothraki Sea on the back of her silver, and then walking through the Red Waste while her people starved.

Carrying her son in her womb, feeling the power of life grow inside of her for the first time... to nothing.

Empty. Lifeless. Barren.

Perhaps there was never any beauty at all, only the smiling guise of wickedness. The serpent beneath the flower. And when the smile faded and the flower withered, there was nothing left but the fragments of what she had shored. Like bones that remained only to serve as a reminder of the life that once was.

Daenerys remembered the triumph and delight she felt when she arrived at Dragonstone, watching her children fly over her family's home. She remembered riding out across the cliffs and feeling like the wind. She remembered golden sunsets and lonely sunrises. And she remembered Jon Snow amidst it all.

She wondered if she'd have to see them all undone to amber. Her family's home, her dragons, him.

“My Queen,” Missandei's voice came, pulling Daenerys out of her thoughts, “Soon, he will come back to you,” she mimicked the same reassurances that Daenerys had given to her once.

Daenerys' eyes snapped open and she turned around to her friend. She started to say that it wasn't the same, the circumstances were different. She wanted to deny it, make it about politics, _anything_ , but she couldn't.

Instead she found herself at the mercy of her memories, or rather, her nightmares. The cursed words came surging back to her at that moment, drowning out everything, deafening her own thoughts.

_When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas run dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again and you bear a living child. Then he will return to you._

Daenerys couldn't breathe.

Everything ends. Everyone leaves.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Missandei apologized, thinking she'd somehow upset Daenerys, “Would you like to finish alone?”

Daenerys' mouth opened and closed as the vice-like grip her thoughts seemed to have on her dissipated, and the crippling feeling subsided.

“Stay with me,” she said, her voice weak and barely there.

Missandei nodded respectfully, and Daenerys held onto her wrist as she guided her to lay back once more. She closed her eyes as Missandei worked her fingers into her hair, gently unraveling her braids.

She shut her eyes tighter, feeling a slight wetness gathering in her lashes. “Never leave me,” she whispered, gritting her teeth as she willed away her tears.

“Never,” Missandei promised, and Daenerys wanted to believe her.

-

Stone after stone.

-

Daenerys woke in the middle of the night, chest heaving and hands sweaty where she was clutching her dragonglass pendant. She'd fallen asleep holding it.

Pieces of her previous dream lingered in her mind like a waking nightmare as she tried to blink them away.

Images of her dragon's fallen lifeless bodies, the iron throne covered in ash and snow, Drogo and Rhaego waiting for her in the Night Lands, and a blue rose growing in a chink of ice burned behind her eyes.

The air smelled sweet.

-

She waited. She wondered. She wished. She hoped. She held onto the edge of a knife.

Another stone was added to the pile.

More weight.

-

A month had come and gone.

Jon Snow wasn't coming back.

Stone and stone again.

More weight.

-

“ _Vikovareri_.”

Daenerys instructed her bloodriders not to follow her.

She didn't know why she was going back to this place. She knew she wouldn't find any answers there, but she couldn't resist the pull to return any longer.

The dragonglass cave was exactly as she remembered it. Beautiful in a singular, obscure sort of way. The light from the torch she held reflected in the black facets. Millions of tiny flecks glowing across the black surface, resembling the sky on a starry night.

Daenerys could see where sections of it had been chipped away, but for all the trunk-fulls of glass Jon Snow had collected, there was still _so much_ of it left.

Shadowing her steps from when she was there last, when Jon Snow had taken her by the arm and led her, Daenerys made her way through the cave.

She could almost feel the ghosts of his touch again, the warmth seeping through her sleeve from his palm, his grip solid but still gentle in a way, as if she was as fragile as the moment. She'd let him take her wrist then, and she welcomed the feeling now as well.

She followed it right through the crowded tunnel that gave way to the real hidden trove of this place.

Illuminated by the torch, the cave drawings were just as she remembered. Crude, depicting strange symbols and dismaying images. The air was thick and muddy as Daenerys breathed it in, standing in this place as old as time, walking the same path as those who'd come before her.

She found herself drawn to the image that had been lurking in the back of her mind since she first saw it.

The creatures... the White Walkers.

She reached out, ghosting her fingers over the pale drawings of the gaunt, mummified creatures, holding spears and swords. Their blue eyes etched into the stone, wide open with malice, watchful for all the centuries that they'd been there.

_The enemy is real. It's always been real._

Daenerys' breath hitched as Jon Snow's words ran like a chill from her fingertips to her spine. She pulled her hand away from the drawing as if it were suddenly hot.

As she stepped back, her eyes lingered on the creatures, leaving her unsettled. She walked away from the drawings, but felt a certain uneasiness, as if she couldn't really escape it.

She moved on, while dragging her fingertips over a large spiral pattern that was carved into the rock, she heard a voice that belonged to someone she'd only met once before.

_Bosys bantis amāzis, se morghor zijomy amāzis. Meri kīvio dārilaros ōz maghagon kostas._

The long night is coming, and the dead come with it. Only the Prince or Princess Who is Promised can bring the dawn. The Lady Melisandre had come to Dragonstone that stormy night, bringing prophecies and boding monitions.

Daenerys traced her finger along the spiral, realizing she hadn't given much credit to any of it then, but perhaps there were more reasons than politics for Melisandre bringing Jon to her.

Perhaps there were more reasons to everything than politics.

Daenerys moved on, coming to the drawing of the First Men and the Children. She dropped her hand, bringing the torch nearer so she could examine the sketch more closely.

 _They fought together._ Jon Snow's voice resounded in her mind. _Despite their differences, despite their suspicions. Together. We need to do the same if we're going to survive._

Daenerys took in the drawing. Two opposing groups, not alike in their appearance, probably not alike in any way except for their common enemy. They set their differences aside and put survival above all their pride and predispositions, because none of what mattered in life would matter in death.

Daenerys could see it all so clearly now.

What Jon Snow had desperately tried to tell her, standing right where she stood now, face to face with an undeniable truth. Perhaps she was in denial then, blind to it all.

Now she'd been on this island for a month passed, harboring so much regret and guilt that it was fading into the numbness of familiarity. Perhaps that was who she was now. While Jon Snow was out there somewhere, facing things she could probably never imagine, trying to get proof to convince the world of the threat.

But Jon didn't need to convince the world because Daenerys believed him, and now he might not ever know.

She hated him for it. She hated herself for it.

Daenerys stepped away from the drawing, and her eyes flitted toward the narrow entryway, hearing the sounds of someone approaching.

“ _Fin gwe rekke?”_ she called out in Dothraki, assuming it was one of her guards checking in, but on second thought she added, “Who's there?”

The sounds continued, growing more strained as the person struggled through the tight space, “Oh bloody buggering Gods damn me...”

Daenerys walked nearer to the entrance, resisting the urge to roll her eyes, “What are you doing here, Tyrion?”

Her Hand all but stumbled out of the tunnel, barely keeping the flames of the torch from catching his hair.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, I didn't mean to interrupt your leisurely stroll through this dark cold cavern,” he said, dusting off his hands on his trousers, “But there's something you should see.”

Daenerys raised her brow, “What is it?”

“A raven,” Tyrion hesitated, “From Winterfell.”

-

The time between unraveling the raven scroll in her hands, to now, was a blur to Daenerys. She didn't know how she ended up standing atop the cliffs, dressed for Northern weather and ready to fly her dragons across the country, but there she was.

She'd read the letter all but once, written in Jon's hand, his words from the start all the way down to his signature.

_Daenerys,_

_The sea has frozen over at Eastwatch. The Night King has made it passed the wall. The army of the dead is marching on the North. They've already taken Last Hearth, they'll come for Winterfell soon. They won't stop after they've finished with us. They will never stop. Please send whatever forces you can. I can't fight this war alone, and neither can you when they come South. Together is our best chance._

_I trust you will find the strength to do what has to be done._

_Jon Snow_

Daenerys couldn't recall anything her counselors had said in the meeting regarding the letter, before it was cut short. Inexplicable impulses had caused her to abruptly walk out, ignore her advisers' protests, and driven her right up to that clifftop.

“You told me your interests were political,” Tyrion was hurrying after her, trying to dissuade her by any means necessary.

“You saw the letter. What's to stop the invasion from coming South?” she argued, “Saving the entire country _is_ a political interest.”

“You can't fly off to war alone. If you die, we're all lost. Everyone. Everything.” His voice was desperate, pleading.

“So what would you have me do?” Daenerys kept walking, stepping onto Drogon's lowered wing.

“Nothing! Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do. Wait here until you have your armies behind you and we have a plan,” Tyrion practically begged her. “Westeros has enough dead heroes, what it needs now is a leader.”

He was right, but what sort of leader would Daenerys be if she let the entire North be destroyed. If she let the very people she meant to rule be slaughtered. If she was willing to let the list of dead heroes grow longer and longer, so long as it didn't claim her own name.

“You told me to do nothing before and I listened to you,” Daenerys said, turning to climb on the back of Drogon, “I'm not doing nothing again.”

Tyrion watched defeatedly from the ground as Daenerys mounted Drogon and they took flight, followed by Rhaegal and Viserion flying off the cliffs and into the air.

As they ascended higher and Daenerys watched Dragonstone fade in the distance beneath her, she suddenly felt as if all the weight she'd been carrying for the passed weeks was lifted.

Not because the burden was any less heavy, but because she'd found the strength to bear it all.

She was done waiting. She didn't have to wonder anymore, or wish, or hope. She knew now. She let go of the knife, finding that she didn't need it to hold herself up anymore.

One stone, or one thousand stones, it didn't matter.

Daenerys wasn't afraid of more weight.

-

After flying the remainder of the day and most of the night, Daenerys was thoroughly exhausted.

The weather had started to turn, as she expected, the further she went north. It was cold, bitterly cold and snowing.

Drogon's back was warm through his hide, keeping her body from freezing, but it did nothing to counter the frigid wind blowing violently into her face. It was incredibly difficult to hold onto Drogon at the speed they were traveling. She constantly had to will him to slow down when she was at risk of losing her grip, or when the winds became too strong.

They were just high enough that Daenerys could see the ground, but without the light of day she hadn't been able to see the Kingsroad for hours. She had no idea if they were still on the right course, or if they even were to begin with. She wasn't well-versed with flying and following directions.

The realization that they might have flown so far off course that she wouldn't make it to Winterfell in time, filled her with a sinking feeling.

She was going to let the North down. She was going to let Jon down.

Daenerys guided Drogon a bit lower so she could see the ground clearer. She was looking for a village, an inn, a town, anything; somewhere she could stop and rest until morning, and start up again after daybreak.

As she searched around for a place to land, she saw something else in the distance.

Lights.

They were quite a ways away, but Daenerys saw them burning in the black of night.

Lanterns, at least fifty. Too many to be a simple cottage, and too few and far in between to be an entire town.

This far North, it could only be Winterfell.

Daenerys could feel it in her bones. She'd flown off course slightly to the west, but she easily guided her dragons back on track, heading toward the dimly lit castle in the distance.

It took nearly another hour before she was close enough to let herself breathe a sigh of relief.

She was freezing and drained of energy, in need of food, water and rest, and her lungs were so cold they burned, but she was there.

She made it.

People had poured out from everywhere, most of them fleeing, screaming and shouting, and others coming to witness Daenerys and her three dragons landing at Winterfell.

The moment Drogon touched down, Daenerys felt her exhaustion sink in. She was disoriented, but clear-minded enough to dismount, and allow Drogon to lower her to the ground on his shoulder.

As the crowd drew closer, Daenerys took a few steps forward until her legs felt like they might give out.

All the yelling had subsided. It was so quiet that the snow could be heard falling. No one said anything, left speechless by her arrival. Daenerys was at a loss for words as well, desperate for water to soothe her throat.

Her vision began to blur at the edges, she couldn't make out any faces but someone stepped forward from the crowd, and as they came nearer to her, she saw one thing as clear as a summer day:

Jon Snow fell to his knees at her feet, with the entire North watching.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would apologize for the cliffhanger but y'all know I'm not sorry! ;)
> 
> I am sorry about the long wait for this chapter though! I'm a slow writer but you all know the deal with that.
> 
> Anyways, a few things:
> 
> There were a TON of comments about the wight hunt in the last chapter, and just to avoid more discourse in case it's unclear, Jon did not actually make it beyond the wall, the wight hunt never happened and I was never planning for it to happen because it was a ridiculous plan from the start. Things are about to take a turn of events though ;)
> 
> Also kudos to the iconic Princess Leia, I'm pretty sure I was channeling something she said in The Last Jedi with the "dead heroes" thing Tyrion said.
> 
> Speaking of Tyrion, I hope you guys don't mind, I gave him a little more bite than the show because he's fun to write okay. And I love the dynamic with him and Dany.
> 
> The translations in this chapter were rough translations, as well as the distances and timelines, and I mean ROUGH please don't read me to filth I tried my best.
> 
> The "more weight" theme was a reference to the legend Giles Corey so if you want more backstory for that just do a little research on him, it's pretty interesting. 
> 
> So what did you guys think of this chapter? Poor Dany, my sweet summer child :( Next chapter we're finally at Winterfell, we might even put the "Stark Sisters" tag to use ;) Let me know your thoughts! Comments and kudos are appreciated as always!!


	6. The Creed of a Hero: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon had never known salvation, but descending from the back of her dragon while the other two circled the skies, Daenerys could have been his.

After a week at sea and another few on the road, Jon was met with the familiar cold of Winterfell. Even before he left for Dragonstone, he'd yet to grow used to being home again.

He remembered the feeling of taking the first steps back inside the castle after the battle with the Boltons. It was a once in a lifetime sort of joy. As he watched the Stark banners fly over Winterfell again, he realized that he was the highest he'd ever been and would ever be. And he was okay with that.

But Jon was wrong.

When he arrived at Winterfell, seeing his family waiting outside the gates to greet him, seeing faces that he once feared he might forget, seeing Bran and Sansa again, and so unexpectedly seeing Samwell Tarly waiting for him as well, and Seven hells, seeing _Arya_ again was more than joy, deeper than joy.

Though his bannermen didn't exactly form a welcome party in his honor. Their solemn stares turned hard and they erupted into muttered objections at the sight of Jon's band of men for the mission beyond the Wall. Including an exiled Knight, the bastard son of a dead king and four Dothraki foreigners.

In any case, being surrounded by his family and holding his little sister and brother in his arms again, it was worth enduring all the horror that put them there. Since the first time he'd left Winterfell as a green boy stinking of summer, Jon was home again.

But the fleeting moment of peace ended as quickly as it had come.

No sooner had Jon been home than the inevitable came like a day of reckoning upon the North.

Tormund and Ed had arrived with what remained of the Nights Watch, and curiously with them, the Brotherhood Without Banners. Jon took one look at them, their eyes bulged and bloodshot, heaving as if they'd run for a full day and night, and he knew the truth in what they told him.

The Night King's storm caused the sea to freeze over at Eastwatch, and the Army of the Dead passed the Wall by way of the frozen water.

Jon knew what that meant. He knew what was coming. He'd always known.

The sinking feeling of impending doom in his gut carried him through the days that followed, each passing moment more intense than the last. From writing a raven to Daenerys begging for aid as best he could, to holding strategy meetings after meetings with his bannermen, it was all happening chaotically, with tension riding high.

“We need to send more ravens to Karhold.”

Jon addressed his council in his study, giving the same old news he'd been repeating like a prayer.

His company had less and less to say with each meeting. Davos occasionally spoke his piece, Sam shared whatever new information he'd discovered in the hours since the last meeting, Arya, much like Tormund and Ed, agreed to follow Jon anywhere, while Sansa never failed to take an issue.

“Jon,” she spoke up, brazen as ever. “The Night King took Last Hearth three days ago, he's probably done the same with Karhold by now. We need to send ravens every way but north. We should be calling for aid, not—”

“We don't know that.” Jon cut in. “They're alive to our knowledge, and we'll keep trying to warn them until we've got reason to think otherwise.”

Sansa's brow creased with clear dissent on the subject, but she nodded accordingly in any case.

“We need to send out more ranging parties as well,” Jon went on mechanically, as if he'd stop functioning if he didn't get through his routine list. “With the storm, the men won't be able to spot the Army of the Dead until they're already a league from here, but the dragons can scout—”

“We can't be sure if we'll have dragons, Jon,” Sansa interjected once more.

Jon paused, his hands gripping the sides of the table. “I've sent word to Daenerys,” he said, afraid that if he pondered too long, Sansa's doubt might invoke his own.

“I trust you, Jon,” Arya's voice came and Jon couldn't bring himself to look at his little sister, “But are you sure we can depend on her?”

Jon hung his head, his knuckles going white with his grip on the table. All of them, Arya, Sansa and even Sam were waiting on him to give up, expecting him to accept how helpless they truly were.

But they weren't. Not yet. Not while Jon still held on.

None of them knew how it felt to be truly helpless. To have no hope in the end, to give up, to accept the worst had come, and realizing there wasn't a shred of glory in dying when no one was left to sing after you'd shit yourself to death in the snow.

“She'll be here.” Jon said it because he had to. “Daenerys will be here.” He had to believe it.

“We need to plan with what we _know_ we have, Jon,” Sansa's hand came to rest atop his, easing his grip on the table. “The Northerners and the Knights of the Vale. Not dragons.”

Jon shook his head.

Even after he could no longer deny that Daenerys wasn't coming, and even when he was staring the Army of the Dead right in their cold blue eyes, and when the Night King shoved a blade of ice right through his heart and even after, Jon wasn't going to let go. He wasn't going to watch all the hope drain from both his sisters' eyes, and Gods be damned, he wasn't going to be the cause of it.

“Do you want us to give you a moment?” Sansa asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

Jon pulled away. She didn't understand. None of them did. Besides Tormund and Ed, none of them were at Hardhome. They didn't understand that all they could dare to do was hope for hope.

“We don't have a moment. We don't have _anything._ ”

The room fell into deeper silence. Everyone looked at Jon as if they were watching the dam break.

He paced back and forth, frustrated. He wished it was as simple as that, patching a leak. This wasn't a dam. It was a storm rolling over everything that walked and breathed and even with all their efforts, it was like trying to contain it with their bare hands.

“Compared to the Night King, we have nothing!” Jon was yelling now. “But we still have to go out there and fight for our bloody lives because that's what you do when the odds are against you! I _know_ we have to plan for the worst and we will, but we're not there yet because we don't have a reason to—”

Jon froze.

He was afraid he imagined it, but he would know that sound anywhere.

The others in the room looked around at each other, curious and questioning and afraid. They'd heard it too.

Jon couldn't breathe, he couldn't speak, he couldn't move, he couldn't let himself believe it until he heard it again.

A dragons cry ripped through the air, practically shaking the walls of the castle above their heads.

The others immediately fled the room, and Jon followed shortly after, his mind still catching up to his body. He was the last person outside the grounds of Winterfell.

A few minutes before, Jon was the only one who still believed this would even happen. Now, he was the one having a hard time believing it, even seeing it with his own eyes.

She was there.

Daenerys was there.

Jon had never known salvation, but descending from the back of her dragon while the other two circled the skies, Daenerys could have been his. Maybe Jon was a godless bastard for thinking so, but relief spread from somewhere deep inside him and he felt like he'd been delivered.

He hadn't realized he was moving until he was suddenly in front of her, and for the life of him, all he could do was fall to his knees right there at her feet.

Jon couldn't speak, even breathing felt like too much. He wanted to say something, he wanted to say _everything_ to Daenerys. She was there and she didn't have to be, and maybe she wasn't enough to save them, but she was more than enough to give them a fighting chance. To give them hope, which was what Jon needed.

He needed Daenerys. He was oblivious to all else, watching her as if there were a chance she wasn't there, and she looked back at him as if he were the one saving her.

Gods help him, he needed her.

“You can bend the bloody knee later, Your Grace.” Davos abruptly appeared, ripping off his cloak and throwing it over Daenerys' slim fur-clad shoulders. “She's freezing to death.”

Jon suddenly became very aware of how faint Daenerys looked, with her lips slightly tinged blue, her skin as pale as ever and frost clinging to her. Just as he wondered why he hadn't noticed sooner, Daenerys' eyes rolled shut and her body went limp underneath her.

Reacting quickly somehow, Jon shot to his feet and caught her fall.

“Get the Maester!” Jon took her in his arms, lifting her with one arm under her knees and the other supporting her back. “Make way! _Move!_ _Move!”_ he shouted, carrying Daenerys through the crowd and rushing her inside.

-

Jon paced up and down the corridor as he had been doing on and off for the last few hours. It was well into the early hours of the morning, but he hadn't slept much, checking in with the Maester about Daenerys' condition as often as he could.

Despite malice lurking on the horizon, the castle was quiet. It had taken some convincing, but Jon had cleared the hallway of Tirgo and the other Dothraki guards, who'd understandably flocked to their Queen. Only Ser Jorah remained, as the old knight made it clear that Jon could keep him out of council meetings but he couldn't keep him away from Daenerys. He'd fallen asleep in the far corner of the corridor.

Mostly everyone was asleep apart from Jon and occasionally, Sansa.

His sister conveniently rose at times when he did, bringing him a cup of tea, inviting him to walk with her or offering to take his place so he could rest. Jon declined all of her offers. Sansa was hovering, and he knew exactly why, but he had no desire to spare any of his concern on the matter.

“You can't avoid me forever.”

It was Sansa again.

Jon paused to look up at her before continuing pacing. “I'm not avoiding you.”

He heard her sigh. “I doubted you.. and her.” She said, referring to the Queen. “Forgive me.”

If he weren't so sleep deprived, Jon would have sighed. “There's nothing to forgive.”

Of course, Sansa pressed. “ _Forgive me,_ Jon. I'm asking because I need you to.”

“Fine.” Jon came to a stop, looking up at her, seeing the words she was about to say written across her face.

“But Jon,” she began grimly, “Since you've made yourself unavailable these last hours, your bannermen have taken to me to voice their concerns. It seems they think your spectacle of _kneeling_ at someone's feet in front of the entire North wasn't the wisest thing to do, and I can't exactly disagree.”

Jon did sigh this time, exhausted. “Not now, Sansa, please—”

“I'm sorry, but we have to discuss this.” She clasped her hands together in front of her. “Clearly, you've done enough of not discussing things with me.”

Jon needed sleep, he needed rest, he needed _peace_ , and maybe that's why he snapped at her.

“Not now!”

His thoughts were so consumed with certain death marching on Winterfell, all other matters grayed in comparison. He was trying to protect Sansa and everyone else from a threat they couldn't even comprehend. So as valid as her concerns may have been, they were not helping him.

“The Night King is on his way here, and we would all be dead by this time tomorrow if Daenerys hadn't come when she did. So forgive me if politics aren't my concern.” Jon resisted the urge to turn away and avoid the despairing look in Sansa's eyes.

“I won't hear another word, from you or my bannermen. Not until this over.”

Jon recognized the look of defeat in Sansa's expression before she turned and disappeared without a parting word.

He was doing this for her own good, at least that's what he told himself when he was left alone in the corridor.

Pacing again, Jon mentally braced for the impending conversation with Daenerys. He hated himself for not handling this while they were still at Dragonstone, before all the urgency and endless dread. He'd thought it was a tough choice then, not telling Daenerys weeks ago when he made his decision.

Now, after Daenerys had nearly died flying across the country for him, it was an impossible choice.

But there he was, about to pledge his kingdom to the Dragon Queen just moments after telling Sansa there was no time for such matters. At the very least, in the midst of everything, he wasn't going to full on propose to Daenerys—or accept her proposal as it may have been, Jon wasn't sure anymore.

Maester Wolkan chose that moment to emerge from Daenerys' temporary rooms, rubbing his hands together.

“How is she?” Jon asked, stepping forward.

“In and out, Your Grace, but warm now,” the Maester replied. “She's going to be fine.”

“Can I see her?” Jon asked but it wasn't really a question, as he'd already decided what he was going to do with the answer.

“I would recommend a few more hours of rest, My King.”

“We don't have a few more hours,” Jon said, somewhat apologetically, but those were the facts of the matter. He pushed open the door to the rooms and the Maester stepped aside, closing it behind Jon.

The fire burned low in the early hours of the morning, casting long shadows around the room. Daenerys was wrapped up in furs and appeared to be lightly sleeping.

Jon hesitated guiltily as he approached her bed. “Your Grace?” he called softly, “Daenerys...”

She stirred slightly and her eyes blinked awake, slowly focusing on Jon in the low light.

“I'm sorry for waking you,” he took a seat in the Maester's chair, feeling awkward hovering near her bed, unsure if he should sit there. “How are you feeling?”

“Jon?” she sounded tired, blinking a few more times as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I'm... I'm alright, it's fine.”

“Do you remember where you are?” Jon asked carefully, “Can you remember what happened?”

She looked around the room searchingly, recognition of her surroundings settled into her features. “Winterfell. I fainted and— and you...” she trailed off.

Her eyes landed on Jon. “You.”

They studied each other's gazes as if they would find answers there, and it wasn't long before the truth was abundantly clear. It had happened. Jon fell to his knees at her feet while everyone looked on, and as unbelievable as it was, they hadn't imagined it.

Either way, there was no going back.

“I'm sorry, I don't know how much time we have so listen, please,” Jon let out a long sigh, as if bracing himself. He'd been ready to do this for weeks, but it suddenly seemed so real now.

“The North is yours.”

He paused, as if waiting for some sort of monumental shift in the world around them, but nothing happened. Even Daenerys remained stoic as ever, so Jon plunged on, “You came to our aide, so if we make it out of this alive then we owe it to you—”

“No.”

The word hung in the air for a moment before Jon realized Daenerys had spoken it, and another moment before he convinced himself he'd heard her correctly.

“What?”

“No.” The Queen pushed up, hiding her wince as she leaned back against the pillows.

Jon had to stop himself from gaping openly, at a loss to why she would be refusing the one thing she's asked him for since the moment they met. He said nothing while her catching gaze held him in her sights as if he belonged there and nowhere else.

“Don't say this because you're grateful that I'm here,” she began seriously, “Don't say this because you think you _owe_ it to me. Don't say this unless you mean it, beyond all doubt.”

Despite the light being low in the room, Jon saw her stolid demeanor waver. He recognized a certain vulnerability that was rare from Daenerys. He'd witnessed it enough to know it only happened scarcely, the last time being when he left Dragonstone and gave her the same pendant that she wore over her heart now.

“When you say _that_ to me, you have to mean it,” her voice was firm but her eyes were pleading, “You have to mean it, Jon.”

Jon jerked to his feet, moving to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. Daenerys flinched at his abrupt movements, surprised by the sudden lack of space between them. Jon searched her face for a sign of objection, and he was relieved to find none. He wasn't sure he could ignore the pull in his chest to be closer to her while he tried to make her understand.

This wasn't something he would do lightly, even while knowing they could all be dead within the night and every oath he swore may as well have been wind.

“I _do_. I do mean it,” he said earnestly, “I've known for a while, I made my decision weeks ago.”

Daenerys faltered slightly at that, and Jon suddenly felt like he was making a confession. “Then I had to leave Dragonstone and... I didn't know if I would come back, so I couldn't make a promise to you that I wouldn't be able to keep.”

The Queen's eyes darkened and Jon felt himself losing her. He reached for her hand instinctively, covering it with his own. They both glanced down at their interlocked hands atop the furs, then back to each other, as if they weren't sure it was happening, or if it _should_ be happening.

But Daenerys didn't pull away, so Jon held onto her while he could.

“Then you came to Winterfell... You came to me _,_ and when I saw you, I knew.” Jon swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. “I knew I'd do anything to make you Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys searched his gaze for a moment, shadows from the warm embers of the hearth flickering in her eyes.

“Jon I...” she trailed off, the firelight ebbing slightly, like a dark cloud passing behind her eyes.

Of all the earth-shattering matters surrounding Jon, her hesitance should have been the least bearing, and Jon shouldn't have felt as if the world were falling to ruins around him, but _Gods,_ it did.

Then, as if she sensed his inner turmoil, Daenerys squeezed his hand back, soft but there. “I hope I deserve it.”

Jon let out a heavy sigh, relieved. “You do.”

Daenerys pressed her lips into a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Jon felt a stab of guilt for having thrown all of this on her before she'd even had the chance to get back on her feet. And even more so because he wasn't finished yet.

“But, Your Grace,” Jon reluctantly went on, “I can't—I _won't_ deal with that any further right now, not while they've out there and our survival is on the line, I'm sorry.”

She watched him mindfully, letting out a small breath. “I agree.”

Jon held her gaze with his heart tied in a knot, until reality caught up to them. He let go of her hand, ignoring the cold feeling of absence that came over him, and let his eyes fall to the hearth, the fires burning low around the logs.

“And _sorry_ but,” Jon winced, staring deeper into the flames, “How much longer do you think you need in here? We're running out of time.”

A beat passed and Daenerys said nothing.

Jon hesitantly looked over his shoulder at her impassive expression, and he couldn't think of anything else to say besides an unimpressive, “I'm sorry... again.”

Daenerys regarded him for a moment before saying, “We certainly don't have time for you to keep apologizing.”

Jon agreed, fighting the impulse to grimace.

“And I don't plan on spending another moment in this bed,” she said with confidence.

“Of course,” Jon cleared his throat, standing, “We'll meet in my study as soon as I can gather everyone. I'll send an escort for you.”

The Queen nodded and Jon turned to go, but once he reached the door, he paused, his hand resting on the handle.

“And... Your Grace?”

Jon looked back at her, shadows from the low light of the fire lining her delicate features, her brows furrowed softly, silver wisps of hair straying from her intricate braids like a crown upon her head. Despite the dread hour, she looked warm and _safe_. Jon closed his eyes briefly, realizing he'd been staring.

“Thank you,” he said honestly, “So much.”

Daenerys' gaze softened as it turned content then a bit conflicted.

“It was the right thing to do,” she said resolutely.

For what may have been the thousandth time over, it was all Jon could do not to stand there and marvel at her.

After their single conversation about her Uncle, she emanated Maester Aemon, heeding his advice more quickly and wisely than Jon ever had.

_You'll find little joy in your command, but with luck, you'll find the strength to do what has to be done._

The old Maester's words always stayed with Jon, ringing truer with each new title that was bestowed on him. He saw now that they had stayed with Daenerys as well, taking root deep within her, becoming embedded into her mind, and leading her to where she was now, despite the face of danger. 

Jon knew then, regardless of the outcome of the war, if all his promises lay in the ashes with his body by morning, Daenerys was the right person to swear them to.

“You've turned me into a stupid hero,” she said lightly.

Jon felt his mouth pull into a smile, his face lifting in a way that was foreign to him it had been so long, he laughed shortly. “Don't give me all the credit.”

Daenerys' mouth grew into a smile of her own then, her eyes shining like the summer sun bringing winter to its knees. Jon found his gaze lingering on the curve of her lips momentarily before catching her bright eyes again.

They stayed like that, a stolen moment of peace blooming between them. He stood there as if they were chained to one another, watching her smile fade to the barest hint of a smirk, and even then, Jon might have killed the man who tried to free him.

It was far too brief and far too long once it was over and Daenerys was gathering up the furs. She drew them off of her before swinging her legs over the edge of the bed in slow, drawn out movements as if she were in pain.

Jon started to offer her his hand but she insistently reminded him, “You'd better get going, Jon Snow.”

He tipped his head toward the floor, resisting the instinct to help because she was right, he'd said so himself. There was no time. Still, his hand hovered over the door handle and he cursed before leaving the room, his steps nearly broken by the pull to stay.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the new chap! I hope it was worth the wait, and I'm so sorry about the long update, I really have no excuse, I'm just a super slow writer but you guys can clearly tell that lol. Sorry not much happened in this chapter, it was meant to be more but I decided to split it in two in favor of a quicker update. I think I'm going to start writing and posting around 5K chapters for faster updates instead of piling so many scenes together for a longer chapter. 
> 
> Anyway, I know things are a little rough between Jon and Sansa and I hope neither of them came off in a bad light, but this is how I imagine things will transpire between them once the NK closes in, plus their conflicting dynamic is fun to write, but more is coming in Part 2 I promise, along with more Arya, and maybe even Dany/Jonerys with the Northern Lords.. who knows ;)
> 
> Plus, I wonder what's up with Dany's reluctance.... And what the heck Jon, just propose already :p
> 
> Tell me your thoughts about anything (this fic, the new Jonerys/Emilia and Kit promo, season 8 expectations) I want to hear it all! Comments and kudos are appreciated as always! I try to respond to every single one because it really means a lot to me that anyone is invested in this story! The next chapter should be coming sooner Lol thanks for reading xx


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